CHAPTER XIN FIRE AND WAR

After “Le Passant” and the famous success of that adorable piece, a success in which Agar and I had our share, Chilly thought more of me and began to like me. He insisted on paying for our costumes, which was great extravagance for him. I had become the adored queen of the students, and I used to receive little bouquets of violets, sonnets, and long, long poems—too long to read. Sometimes, on arriving at the theater, as I was getting out of my carriage, I received a shower of flowers which simply covered me, and I was delighted and used to thank my worshipers. The only thing was that their admiration blinded them, so that when in some pieces I was not so good, and the house was rather chary of applause, my little army of students would be indignant, and would cheer wildly, without rhyme or reason. I can understand quite well that this used to exasperate the regular subscribers of the Odéon, who were very kindly disposed toward me, nevertheless. They, too, used to spoil me, but they would have liked me to be more humble and meek, and less headstrong. How many times one or another of those old subscribers would come and give me a word of advice! “Mademoiselle, you were charming in ‘Junie,’” one of them observed, “but you bite your lips, and the Roman women never did that!” “My dear girl,” another one said, “you were delicious in ‘François le Champi,’ but there is not a single Breton woman in the whole of Brittany with her hair frizzed.”

A professor from the Sorbonne said to me one day, rathercurtly: “It is a want of respect, mademoiselle, to turn your back on the public!”

“But, monsieur,” I replied, “I was accompanying an old lady to a door at the back of the stage. I could not walk along with her backward.”

“Theartisteswe had before you, mademoiselle, who were quite as talented, found a way of going across the stage without turning their backs on the public.” With this he turned quickly on his heels and was going away, but I stopped him.

“Monsieur, will you go to that door, through which you intended to pass, without turning your back on me?”

He made an attempt, and then, furious, turned his back on me and disappeared, slamming the door after him.

I lived for some time at 16 Rue Auber, in a flat on the first floor, which was rather a nice one. I had furnished it with old Dutch furniture which my grandmother had sent me. My godfather advised me to insure against fire, as this furniture, he assured me, constituted a small fortune. I decided to follow his advice, and asked mypetite dameto take the necessary steps for me. A few days later, she told me that some one would call about it on the 12th. On the day in question, toward two o’clock, a gentleman called, but I was in an extremely nervous condition, and could not see anyone. I had refused to be disturbed, and had shut myself up in my bedroom in a frightfully depressed state. That same evening, I received a letter from the fire insurance company, asking me which day their agent might call to have the agreement signed. I replied that he might come on Saturday. On Friday I was so utterly wretched that I sent to ask my mother to come and lunch with me. I was not playing that day, as I never used to play on Tuesdays and Fridays, the days we went through our repertory, for, as I was playing every other day in new pieces, it was feared that I should be overtired.

My mother, on arriving, thought I looked very pale.

“Yes,” I replied, “I do not know what is the matter with me, but I am in a very nervous state and most depressed.”

The governess came to fetch my little boy to take him out for a walk, but I would not let him go.

“Oh, no!” I exclaimed, “the child must not leave me to-day, I am afraid of something happening.”

What happened was fortunately of a less serious nature than I, with my love for my family, was dreading.

I had my grandmother living with me at that time, and she was blind. It was the grandmother who had given me most of my furniture. She was a spectral-looking woman, and her beauty was of a cold, hard type. She was fearfully tall, and she looked like a giantess. She was thin, and very upright, and her long arms were always stretched in front of her, feeling for all the objects in her way, so that she might not knock herself, although she was always accompanied by the attendant whom I had engaged for her. Above this long lady was her little face, with two immense, pale blue eyes, which were always open, even when asleep through the night. She was generally dressed from head to foot in gray, and this neutral color gave something unreal to her general appearance. My mother, after trying to comfort me, went away about two o’clock. My grandmother, seated opposite me in her large Voltaire armchair, questioned me:

“What are you afraid of?” she asked. “Why are you so mournful? I have not heard you laugh all day.”

I did not answer, but looked at my grandmother. It seemed to me that the trouble I was dreading would come through her.

“Are you not there?” she persisted.

“Yes, I am here,” I answered, “but please do not talk to me.”

She did not utter another word, but, with her two hands on her lap, sat there for hours. I sketched her strange, prophet-like face.

It began to grow dusk, and I thought I would go and dress, after being present at the meal taken by my grandmother and the child. My friend, Rose Baretta, was dining with me that evening, and I had also invited a most charming man, who was very intelligent and distinguished. His name was CharlesHaas. Arthur Meyer came, too, a young journalist already very much in vogue. I told them about my forebodings with regard to that day, and begged them not to leave me before midnight.

“After that,” I said, “it will not be to-day, and the wicked sprites who are watching me will have missed their chance.”

They agreed to humor my fancy, and Arthur Meyer, who ought to have gone to some first night at one of the theaters, gave it up. Dinner was more animated than luncheon had been, and it was nine o’clock when we left the table. Rose Baretta sang us some delightful old songs. I went away for a minute to see that all was right in my grandmother’s room. I found my maid with her head wrapped up in cloths soaked in sedative water. I asked what was the matter, and she said that she had a terrible headache. I told her to prepare my bath and everything for me for the night and then to go to bed. She thanked me and obeyed.

I went back to the drawing-room, and sitting down to the piano, played “Il Bacio,” Mendelssohn’s “Bells,” and Weber’s “Last Thought.” I had not come to the end of this last melody, when I stopped, suddenly hearing cries in the street of “Fire! Fire!”

“They are shouting ‘Fire!’” exclaimed Arthur Meyer.

“That’s all the same to me,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “It is not midnight yet and I am expecting my own misfortune.”

Charles Haas had opened the drawing-room window to see where the shouts were coming from. He stepped out on the balcony, and then came quickly in again.

“The fire is here!” he exclaimed. “Look!”

I rushed to the window and saw the flames coming from the two windows of my bedroom. I ran back through the drawing-room to the corridor and then to the room where my child was sleeping with his governess and his nurse. They were all fast asleep. Arthur Meyer opened the hall door, the bell of which was being rung violently. I roused the two women quickly, wrapped the sleeping child in his blankets, and rushedto the door with my precious burden. I then ran downstairs and, crossing the street, took him to Guadacelli’s chocolate shop opposite, just at the corner of the Rue de Caumartin. The kind man took my little slumberer in, let him lie on a couch, where the child continued his sleep without any break. I left him in charge of his governess and his nurse, and went quickly back to the flaming house.

The firemen, who had been sent for, had not yet arrived, and at all costs I was determined to rescue my poor grandmother. It was impossible to go back up the principal staircase, as it was filled with smoke. Charles Haas, bareheaded and in evening dress, a flower still in his buttonhole, started with me up the narrow back staircase. We were soon on the first floor, but when once there my knees shook, it seemed as though my heart had stopped, and I was seized with despair. The kitchen door, at the top of the first flight of stairs, was locked with a triple turn of the key. My willing companion was tall, slight, and elegant, but not strong. I besought him to go down and fetch a hammer, a hatchet, or something, but just at that moment a newcomer wrenched the door open by a violent plunge with his shoulder against it.

This new arrival was no other than M. Sohège, a friend of mine. He was a most charming and excellent man, a broad-shouldered Alsatian, well known in Paris, very lively and kind, and always ready to do anyone a service. I took my friends to my grandmother’s room. She was sitting up in bed, out of breath with calling Catherine, the servant who waited upon her. This maid was about twenty-five years of age, a big, strapping girl from Burgundy, and she was now sleeping peacefully, in spite of the uproar in the street, the noise of the fire engines, which had arrived at last, and the wild shrieks of the occupants of the house. Sohège shook the maid, while I explained to my grandmother the reason of the tumult and why we were in her room.

“Very good,” she said: and then she added, calmly, “will you give me the box, Sarah, that you will find at the bottom of the wardrobe? The key of it is here.”

“But, grandmother,” I exclaimed, “the smoke is beginning to come in here. We have not any time to lose.”

“Well, do as you like, I shall not leave without my box!” With the help of Charles Haas and of Arthur Meyer, we put my grandmother on Sohège’s back, in spite of herself. He was of medium height, and she was extremely tall, so that her long legs touched the ground, and I was afraid she might get them injured. Sohège, therefore, took her in his arms, and Charles Haas carried her legs. We then set off, but the smoke stifled us, and after descending about ten stairs I fell down in a faint.

When I came to myself, I was in my mother’s bed. My little boy was asleep in my sister’s room, and my grandmother was installed in a large armchair. She sat bolt upright, frowning, and with an angry expression on her lips. She did not trouble about anything but her box, until at last my mother was angry, and reproached her severely in Dutch with only caring for herself. She answered excitedly, and her neck craned forward, as though to help her head to peer through the perpetual darkness which surrounded her. Her thin body wrapped in an Indian shawl of many colors, the hissing of her strident words, which flowed freely, all contributed to make her resemble a serpent in some terrible nightmare. My mother did not like this woman, who had married my grandfather when he had six big children, the eldest of whom was sixteen and the youngest, my uncle, five years. This second wife had never had any children of her own, and she had been indifferent and even hard toward those of her husband, and consequently she was not liked in the family. I had taken her in because smallpox had broken out in the family with whom she had been boarding. She had then wished to stay with me, and I had not had courage enough to oppose her. On the occasion of the fire, though, I considered she behaved so badly that a strong dislike to her came over me, and I resolved not to have her any longer in my house.

News of the fire was brought to us. It continued to rage, and burned everything in my flat, absolutely everything, even to the very last book in my library. My greatest trouble wasthat I lost a magnificent portrait of my mother by Bassompierre Severin, a pastelist very much in vogue under the Empire; an oil portrait of my father, and a very pretty pastel of my sister Jeanne. I had not much jewelry, and all that was found of the bracelet given to me by the Emperor was a huge shapeless mass which I still have. I had a very pretty diadem, set with diamonds and pearls, given to me by Kabil Bey, after a performance at his house. The ashes of this had to be riddled in order to find the stones. The diamonds were there, but the pearls had melted.

I was absolutely ruined, for the money that my father and his mother had left me I had spent in furniture, curiosities, and a hundred other useless things, which were the delight of my life. I had, too, and I own it was absurd, a tortoise named Chrysagère. Its back was covered with a shell of gold, set with very small blue, pink, and yellow topazes. Oh, how beautiful it was and how droll! It used to wander round my flat, accompanied by a small tortoise named Zerbinette, which was its servant, and I amused myself for hours watching Chrysagère, flashing with a hundred lights under the rays of the sun or the moon. Both my tortoises died in this fire.

Duquesnel, who was very kind to me at that time, came to see me a few weeks later, for he had just received a summons from the fire insurance company, whose papers I had refused to sign the day before the catastrophe. The company claimed a heavy sum from me for damages to the other tenants of the house. The second story was almost entirely destroyed, and for many months the whole building had to be propped up. I did not possess the forty thousand francs claimed. Duquesnel offered to give a benefit performance for me, which would, he said, free me from my difficulty. De Chilly was very walling to agree to anything that would be of service to me. This benefit was a wonderful success, thanks to the presence of the adorable Adelina Patti. The young singer, who was then the Marquise de Caux, had never before sung at a benefit performance, and it was Arthur Meyer who brought me the news that “La Patti” was going to sing for me. Her husband came during the afternoon,to tell me how glad she was of this opportunity of proving to me her sympathy. As soon as the “fairy bird” was announced, every seat in the house was promptly taken, at prices which were higher than those originally fixed. She had no reason to regret her friendly action, for never was any triumph more complete. The students greeted her with three cheers as she came on the stage. She was a little surprised at this noise of bravos in rhythm. I can see her now coming forward, her two little feet encased in pink satin. She was like a bird hesitating as to whether it would fly or remain on the ground. She looked so pretty, so smiling, and when she trilled out the gemlike notes of her wonderful voice the whole house was delirious with excitement. Everyone sprang up and the students stood on their seats, waved their hats and handkerchiefs, nodded their young heads, in their feverish enthusiasm for art, and encored with intonations of the most touching supplication. The divine singer then began again, and three times over she had to sing thecavatinafrom the “Barber of Seville,”Una voce poco fa.

I thanked her affectionately afterwards, and she left the theater escorted by the students, who followed her carriage for a long way, shouting over and over again: “Long live Adelina Patti!” Thanks to that evening’s performance I was able to pay the insurance company. I was ruined all the same, or very nearly so.

I stayed a few days with my mother, but we were so cramped for room there that I took a furnished flat in the Rue de l’Arcade. It was a wretched house and the flat was dark. I was wondering how I should get out of my difficulties, when one morning M. C——, my father’s notary, was announced. This was the man I disliked so much, but I gave orders that he should be shown in. I was surprised that I had not seen him for so long a time. He told me that he had just returned from Hombourg, that he had seen in the newspaper an account of my misfortune, and had now come to put himself at my service. In spite of my distrust, I was touched by this, and I related to him the whole drama of my fire. I did not know how it had started, but I vaguely suspected my maid Josephine of having placed mylighted candle on the little table to the left of the head of my bed. I had frequently warned her not to do this, but it was on this little piece of furniture that she always placed my water bottle and glass, and a dessert dish with a couple of raw apples, for I like eating apples when I wake in the night. On opening the door there was always a terrible draught, as the windows were left open until I went to bed. On closing the door after her the lace bed curtains had probably caught fire. I could not explain the catastrophe in any other way. I had several times seen the young servant do this stupid thing, and I supposed that on the night in question she had been in a hurry to go to bed on account of her bad headache. As a rule, when I was going to undress myself, she prepared everything and then came in and told me, but this time she had not done so. As a rule, too, I just went into the room myself to see that everything was right, and several times I had been obliged to move the candle. That day, however, was destined to bring me misfortune of some kind, though it was not a very great one.

“But,” said the notary, “you were not insured, then?”

“No, I was to sign my policy the day after the event.”

“Ah,” exclaimed the man of law; “and to think that I have been told you set the flat on fire yourself, for the sake of picking up a large sum for damages!”

I shrugged my shoulders, for I had seen insinuations to this effect in a newspaper. I was very young at this time, but I already had a certain disdain for tittle-tattle.

“Oh, well, I must arrange matters for you, if things are like this,” said Maître C——. “You are really better off than you imagine as regards the money on your father’s side,” he continued. “As your grandmother leaves you an annuity, you can get a good amount for this by agreeing to insure your life for 250,000 francs for forty years, for the benefit of the purchaser.” I agreed to everything, and was only too delighted at such a windfall. This man promised to send me, two days after his return, 120,000 francs, and he kept his word.

My reason for giving the details of this little episode, whichafter all belongs to my life, is to show how differently things turn out from what seems likely, according to logic or according to our own expectations. It is quite certain that the accident, which just then happened to me, scattered to the winds the hopes and plans of my life. I had arranged for myself a luxurious home with the money that my father and his mother had left me. I had reserved and placed out the amount necessary to complete my monthly salary for the next two years, and I was reckoning that at the end of the two years I should be in a position to demand a very large salary. And all these arrangements had been upset by the carelessness of a domestic. I had rich relatives and very rich friends, but not one among them stretched out a hand to help me out of the ditch into which I had fallen. My rich relatives had not forgiven me for going on to the stage. And yet, Heaven knows what tears it had cost me to take up this career that had been forced upon me! My Uncle Faure came to see me at my mother’s house, but my aunt would not listen to a word about me. I used to see my cousin secretly, and sometimes his pretty sister. My rich friends considered that I was wildly extravagant, and could not understand why I did not place the money I had inherited in good, sound investments.

I received a great deal of poetry on the subject of my fire. Most of the pieces were anonymous; I have kept them, however, and I quote the following one, which is rather nice:

Passant, te voilà sans abri:La flamme a ravagé ton gîte.Hier plus léger qu’un colibri;Ton esprit aujourd’hui s’agite,S’exhalant en gémissementsSur tout ce que le feu dévore.Tu pleures tes beaux diamants?...Non, tes grands yeux les ont encore!Ne regrette pas ces colliers;Qu’on a leur cou les riches dames!Tu trouveras dans les halliers,Des tissus verts, aux fines trames!Ta perle?... Mais, c’est le jais noirQui sur l’envers du fossépousse!Et le cadre de ton miroirEst une bordure de mousse!Tes bracelets?... Mais, tes bras nus:Tu paraitras cent fois plus belle!Sur les bras polis de Vénus,Aucun cercle d’or n’étincelle!Garde ton charme si puissant!Ton parfum de plante sauvage!Laisse les bijoux,O Passant,A celles que le temps ravage!Avec ta guitare à ton cou,Va, par la France et par l’Espagne!Suis ton chemin; je ne sais où....Par la plaine et par la montagne!Passe, comme la plume au vent!Comme le son de ta mandore!Comme un flot qui baise en rêvantLes flancs d’une barque sonore!

Passant, te voilà sans abri:

La flamme a ravagé ton gîte.

Hier plus léger qu’un colibri;

Ton esprit aujourd’hui s’agite,

S’exhalant en gémissements

Sur tout ce que le feu dévore.

Tu pleures tes beaux diamants?...

Non, tes grands yeux les ont encore!

Ne regrette pas ces colliers;Qu’on a leur cou les riches dames!Tu trouveras dans les halliers,Des tissus verts, aux fines trames!Ta perle?... Mais, c’est le jais noirQui sur l’envers du fossépousse!Et le cadre de ton miroirEst une bordure de mousse!

Ne regrette pas ces colliers;

Qu’on a leur cou les riches dames!

Tu trouveras dans les halliers,

Des tissus verts, aux fines trames!

Ta perle?... Mais, c’est le jais noir

Qui sur l’envers du fossépousse!

Et le cadre de ton miroir

Est une bordure de mousse!

Tes bracelets?... Mais, tes bras nus:Tu paraitras cent fois plus belle!Sur les bras polis de Vénus,Aucun cercle d’or n’étincelle!Garde ton charme si puissant!Ton parfum de plante sauvage!Laisse les bijoux,O Passant,A celles que le temps ravage!

Tes bracelets?... Mais, tes bras nus:

Tu paraitras cent fois plus belle!

Sur les bras polis de Vénus,

Aucun cercle d’or n’étincelle!

Garde ton charme si puissant!

Ton parfum de plante sauvage!

Laisse les bijoux,O Passant,

A celles que le temps ravage!

Avec ta guitare à ton cou,Va, par la France et par l’Espagne!Suis ton chemin; je ne sais où....Par la plaine et par la montagne!Passe, comme la plume au vent!Comme le son de ta mandore!Comme un flot qui baise en rêvantLes flancs d’une barque sonore!

Avec ta guitare à ton cou,

Va, par la France et par l’Espagne!

Suis ton chemin; je ne sais où....

Par la plaine et par la montagne!

Passe, comme la plume au vent!

Comme le son de ta mandore!

Comme un flot qui baise en rêvant

Les flancs d’une barque sonore!

The proprietor of one of the hotels now very much in vogue sent me the following letter, which I quote word for word:

Madame: If you would consent to dine every evening for a month in our large dining-room, I would place at your service a suite of rooms on the first floor, consisting of two bedrooms, a large drawing-room, a small boudoir and a bath room. It is of course, understood that this suite of rooms would be yours free of charge if you would consent to do as I ask.

Yours truly, etc....

P. S.—You would only have to pay for the fresh supplies of plants for your drawing-room.

This was the extent of the man’s coarseness. I asked one of my friends to go and give the low fellow his answer.

I was in despair, though, for I felt that I could not live without comfort and luxury.

I soon made up my mind as to what I must do, but not withoutgreat sorrow. I had been offered a magnificent engagement in Russia, and I should have to accept it. Mme. Guérard was my sole confidant, and I did not mention my plan to anyone else. The idea of Russia terrified her, for at that time my chest was very delicate and cold was my most cruel enemy. It was just as I had made up my mind to this that the lawyer arrived. His avaricious and crafty mind had schemed out the clever and, for him, profitable combination, which was to change my whole life once more.

I took a pretty flat on the first floor of a house in the Rue de Rome. It was very sunny, and that delighted me more than anything else. There were two drawing-rooms and a large dining-room. I arranged for my grandmother to live at a home kept by lay Sisters and nuns. She was a Jewess, and carried out very strictly all the laws laid down by her religion. The house was very comfortable, and my grandmother took with her her own maid, the young girl from Burgundy, to whom she was accustomed. When I went to see her she told me that she was much better off there than with me. “When I was with you,” she said, “I found your boy too noisy.” I very rarely went to visit her there, for after seeing my mother turn pale at her unkind words I never cared any more for her. She was happy, and that was the essential thing.

I now played in “Le Bâtard,” in which I had great success; in “L’Affranchi,” in “L’Autre,” by George Sand, and in “Jean-Marie,” a little masterpiece by André Theuriet, which had the most brilliant success. Porel played the part ofJean-Marie. He was at that time slender, and full of hope as regarded his future. Since then his slenderness has developed into plumpness and his hope into certitude.

Evil days then came upon us! Paris began to get feverish and excited. The streets were black with groups of people, discussing and gesticulating. And all this noise was only the echo of far-distant groups gathered together in German streets. These other groups were yelling, gesticulating, and discussing, but—they knew; while we—did not know!

I could not keep calm, but was extremely excited, until finally I was ill. War was declared, and I hate war! It exasperates me and makes me shudder from head to foot. At times I used to spring up terrified, upset by the distant cries of human voices.

Oh, war! What infamy, shame, and sorrow! War! What theft and crime, abetted, forgiven, and glorified!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hundred thousand men! A hundred thousand Frenchmenhad to capitulate, and the Emperor of France had to hand his sword over to the King of Prussia!

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

On the first of September toward ten o’clock Claude, my manservant, knocked at my door. I was not asleep, and he gave me his copy of the first telegrams: “Battle of Sedan commenced.... MacMahon wounded ... etc., etc.” “Ah, go back again!” I said, “and as soon as a fresh telegram comes, bring me the news. I feel that something unheard of, something great—and quite different—is going to happen. We have suffered so terribly this last month that there can only be something good now, something fine; for God’s scales mete out joy and suffering equally. Go at once, Claude,” I added, and then full of confidence, I soon fell asleep again, and was so tired that I slept until one o’clock. When I awoke, my maid Elicie, the most delightful girl imaginable, was seated near my bed. Her pretty face and her large, dark eyes were so mournful that my heart stopped beating. I gazed at her anxiously, and she put into my hands the copy of the last telegram: “The Emperor Napoleon has just handed over his sword....”

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

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

I decided to return at once to Paris, as the siege was about to be proclaimed and I did not want my mother and my sisters to remain in the capital. Independently of this, everyone at Eaux-Bonnes was seized with a desire to get away, invalids and tourists alike. A post chaise was found, the owner of which agreed, for an exorbitant price, to take me to the next train thatcame. When once in it, we were more or less comfortably seated as far as Bordeaux, but it was impossible to find five seats in the express from there. My manservant was allowed to travel with the engine driver. I do not know where Mme. Guérard and my maid found room, but in the compartment I entered, with my little boy, there were already nine persons. An ugly old man tried to push my child back when I had put him in, but I pushed him again energetically in my turn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you believe it,” exclaimed one of the young men. “Just look for yourself; we are standing up and there are three seats empty; send us some more people in here!”

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

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

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

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

“I think we are slightly related,” she said. “I am Mme. Laroque....”

“Of Bordeaux?” I asked.

“Yes.”

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

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

On reaching home I sent word to my mother that I should be with her sometime during the day. She came at once, as she wanted to know how my health was. We then arranged about the departure of the whole family, with the exception of myself, as I wanted to stay in Paris during the siege. My mother, my little boy, and his nurse, my sisters, my Aunt Annette, who kept house for me, and my mother’s maid, were all ready to start two days later. I had taken rooms at Frascati’s, at Hâvre, for the whole tribe. But the desire to leave Paris was one thing, and the possibility of doing so, another. The stations were invaded by families like mine, who thought it more prudent to emigrate. I sent my manservant to engage a compartment, and he came back three hours later with his clothes torn, after receiving various kicks and blows.

“Madame cannot go into that crowd,” he assured me. “It is quite impossible. I should not be able to protect her. And then, too, madame will not be alone; there is madame’s mother, the other ladies, and the children. It is really quite impossible.”

I sent at once for three of my friends, explained my difficulty,and asked them to accompany me. I told my butler to be ready, as well as my other manservant, and my mother’s footman. He, in his turn, invited his younger brother, who was a priest and who was very willing to go with us. We all set off in a railway omnibus. There were seventeen of us in all, and only nine who were really traveling. Our eight protectors were not too many, for they were not human beings who were taking tickets, but wild beasts, haunted by fear, and spurred on by a desire to escape. These brutes saw nothing but the little ticket office, the door leading to the train, and then the train which would insure their escape. The presence of the young priest was a great help to us, for his religious character made people refrain sometimes from blows.

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

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

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

Back to Index Next