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My Double Life

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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.

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