* * *
Living with Julie, my aunt, my five-year-old son, my rambunctious dogs and squawking parrot, in addition to my rebellious younger sister, who detested the flat almost as much as she did Julie and made no bones about it, proved a test of my forbearance. Rosine rallied to my order that Jeanne must be attended at all times, washing her with a tincture of chamomile and feverfew to ease her malaise, and ensuring her sheets were changed and laundered daily. Jeanne slowly began to show improvement, sipping broth and gritting her teeth from the spasms in her private parts. The bloody discharge had ebbed, though whatever she’d done to herself had caused damage. It would be at least another month before she was back on her feet.
Julie went about her days as if I didn’t exist, but it was her utter lack of outward concern for Jeanne, whom she’d treated so preferentially, that most infuriated me. If I could have thrown her out into the street, as she’d so often threatened to do to me, I would have. Only her agreement to not entertain at home and Rosine’s constant presence upheld our uneasy stalemate, my aunt murmuring that Julie wasn’t uncaring, but Jeanne had gone and done the unforgivable, giving herself so recklessly after she’d seen what could happen—
“Did she have a choice?” I said, glaring at my aunt. “Did Julie ever ask her what she might want? No, Julie did not. Nor did she give Jeanne any advice on what might happen other than what she gave me, which is scarcely enough to prevent a chill, let alone a child.” My voice caught. “Julie should never have put her in this position.”
Upon my inquiry, Jeanne refused to disclose her suitor’s name. I didn’t press her; it made no difference, but my anger was so fierce, resurrecting memories of my humiliation by Kératry, that I poured my turmoil into my play, creating a performance that critics hailed as my most accomplished yet. Madame Sand was delighted, as were Duquesnel and de Chilly, who raked in record receipts. Ironically, my fame increased, even as I raced from the theater to my mother’s flat every night, losing too much weight and fueled by nerves.
Finally, Jeanne was well enough to leave her sickbed. Before Julie could reassert her authority—I knew she’d dress Jeanne in white and send her back to the Opéra, regardless that my sister had scarcely recovered—I announced that upon the closing of my play in mid-August after sixty-five shows, I would take a respite. I was exhausted from work and the situation at home, but still worried enough about my sister that I invited the family to join me. We would spend a week enjoying the healing waters of Vichy; as I offered to pay the expenses, I thought no one would protest.
Naturally, Julie did. “Absolutely not. Jeanne is in no state to be seen yet in society.”
“Vichy is not society,” I said through my teeth. “It’s a spa. Where sick people like Jeanne go to take the cure.”
“No.” Julie turned from me. “I forbid it.”
“You must go instead,” urged Rosine, as my mother walked away and I contemplated hurling a nearby vase at her departing figure. “You’re so thin. You barely eat or sleep. You go to Vichy and we’ll care for Maurice and Régine.”
“Never,” I said.
I returned with Caroline, Régine, my son, and my dogs to my flat. Caroline offered to come with me and look after Maurice and Régine in Vichy, but it was a spa, after all, with no activities for children, so Madame G. dissuaded me. “They’ll be bored to tears and will distract you. Leave them with us. You never have any time to yourself.”
I hesitated, not wishing to part from my son or sister, even though it was just for seven days, which was all my contract allowed. The Odéon had closed for midsummer repairs; once I returned, I would embark upon the extended season Duquesnel had prepared for me. Upon my shoulders now rested the house profit. They had anointed me their lead actress and neither he nor de Chilly was going to let me forget it.
Packing my bags after a tearful farewell and strict instructions to Caroline to see that Régine attended to her studies and Maurice didn’t spend every minute romping with our dogs, I boarded the train to Vichy for what I hoped would be a restorative holiday.
VIII
“Ridiculous!” I flung the newspaper with the blaring headline onto the glass-topped table in the resort’s atrium. Finches chirped in cages over stone urns spilling ferns, as immaculate waiters circulated with pitchers of the sulfurous waters, but Vichy itself had emptied overnight, the news that Napoleon III had declared war on Prussia sending vacationers rushing to the train station to return home. I wasn’t pleased. Here I was, looking forward to a respite, and the moment I left Paris, the entire world imploded.
Across from me sat a well-upholstered matron of Madame Nathalie’s ilk, all bustle and ringlets despite the heat. She peered at me over her pince-nez as if I’d stepped on her hem, then at the paper I’d tossed aside. She let out a sigh. “His Imperial Majesty must defend our honor. France has been sorely impugned by those dreadful Huns.”
“Must he do it while I’m on holiday?” I said, and she gave an indignant huff.
Yet he had, nevertheless, and I began to fret. Caroline was devoted to Maurice and Régine, but she couldn’t be expected to oversee them in a city thrown into upheaval by fear of war. I should return, even if it couldn’t possibly be as terrible as the newspapers claimed. How could our emperor endanger us by fighting Prussia? It was inconceivable. No doubt this was just more of that insufferable saber-rattling by that menace Bismarck and boastful posturing in return by Louis-Napoléon. Still, I couldn’t dismiss it entirely out of hand, lest I risk being stranded in Vichy should the inconceivable turn out to be true.
Packing up my valises, I braved the infernally crowded station, bartering, demanding, then begging and overpaying for a spare ticket on the last overbooked train to Paris. I had to stand the entire way, my valises at my feet. There were women clutching handkerchiefs to their tearful faces; ashen husbands, brothers, and lovers sat rigid at their sides, no doubt already envisioning themselves charging across the battlefield in full dress uniform to defend our alleged impugned honor.
It made me sick. I thought it a lunacy of the highest order and was relieved I didn’t have to sit across from one of those stalwart gentlemen as he comforted his distraught wife, muttering of intolerable Prussian aggression. I wasn’t one to hold my opinions to myself, so it was just as well that I was left to sway like a maidservant in the corridor.
Once we arrived in Paris, my disdain crumbled. A pall of smoke obscured the sky, but no one seemed to know exactly what was happening. Rumors ran amok that the Germans were about to assault the city, and Parisians had responded as one might expect at such a terrifying possibility. With utter disregard for any facts or reason, those who could closed up their houses, flung themselves and their families into hansoms or private carriages, loaded up carts with their valuables, and fled to the countryside.
Locating a spare hansom at the gare proved futile. The clamoring multitude brandished fistfuls of francs, depositing entire bank accounts into coachmen’s laps for the short ride across the Seine. I might have walked, but I had no place to store my luggage, without risking it being stolen, as pandemonium reigned in the station. I counted myself fortunate when a passing milk vendor saw my frantic waving and stopped. Thrusting my fare at him, I clambered into the back of his cart amidst rusted tins and the sticky residue of milk spills, perching as best I could and holding on for dear life as he drove me toward my mother’s district. I reasoned it was the logical place to start; I could commandeer Julie’s private equipage to go to my apartment, reunite with Maurice and Régine, and decide what to do next.
“Is it true the Prussians are upon us?” I asked the grizzled milk vendor. His beret was jammed about his ears and a cigarette dangled between his lips.
He snorted. “Do I look like Louis-Napoléon’s general to you, mademoiselle?”
“But all this smoke in the air…it’s not from their cannon fire?”
“Our new government has seen fit to torc
h the Bois de Boulogne and every other tree within fifty miles of the city,” he replied. “No forage must be left for the enemy.” He gave me an acerbic look. “Not that anyone has set eyes on the enemy yet.”
Once we arrived in Julie’s arrondissement, the smoke dissipated. In its place, an eerie calm prevailed. The chestnut-lined streets were deserted; a discarded newspaper bearing the dreadful headline fluttered down the pavement in an unfelt wind, that stir of empty space that could be so unsettling, when everything went quiet, still, like an audience in a darkened theater, waiting for the play to start.
“Where now?” he asked.
“Up ahead.” I pointed to the building. There was no one outside. Where had everyone gone? Were they all indoors, huddled under the tables, waiting for Prussian cannonballs to shatter their windows?
I leapt from the cart as soon as he reined his nag to a halt. Grappling with my valises, I found the building’s entry door ajar. The foyer was empty. As I heard the clip-clop of hooves on the cobblestone road grow fainter behind me, the hairs on my neck stood on end. Times past, this district had been so full of pedestrians and the clattering of carriages, I would never have discerned the sound of a single cart.
Standing in the foyer with my bags heaped about me, I called out. My voice echoed into the vacancy, increasing my alarm. Where were they? Surely my own family had not been so reckless as to depart the city without sending me a telegram—
Footsteps came clattering down the staircase. When I saw Madame G. peering over the wrought-iron balustrade above, I breathed again. “Finally. Come, ma petite dame, help me with these bags.”
She inched down the stairs, glancing at the door at my back as if she anticipated an eruption. Scowling at her, I handed her two of my smaller bags while I shouldered the valise, climbing the staircase to Julie’s door. When I paused, she said, “They’re not here.”
I stared at her. “Where have they gone?”
“I don’t know. Your mother…she took them. She said…” Madame G. faltered.
“What? What did she say?”
I expected a hasty explanation that, given the situation, Julie had decided to escape to some mountain haven before she and Rosine found themselves entertaining Prussians in their salon, until Madame G. muttered, “She said, why should you be the only one to take a holiday? You’d barely walked out the door for Vichy when she decided to leave, as well.”
I wanted to kick my mother’s closed door with my pointed ankle boot. “Let’s go upstairs. I must sit for a minute.”
In her flat, I dropped onto the sofa as Madame G. brought me a tepid cup of tea and a plate of stale macaroons. I noticed boxes on the floor, haphazardly filled with a mishmash of items, as if I’d caught her in mid-packing.
“What is all this?” I asked sarcastically, though I already knew.
She made a helpless gesture. “They say we’re in danger. I thought it best to prepare.”
“By packing up your books and…is that Froufrou’s pillow?” Her beloved cat had died years ago. “Honestly. The Prussians are not invading. Everyone has gone insane.”
“But there is a war.” A tremor crept into her voice. “We are at war with Prussia.”
“The emperor might be at war. We are not.” I drank my tea, trying to steady my nerves. Julie had left with my aunt and Jeanne, taking her equipage, of course, and I needed reliable transport to my apartment. I supposed I could walk, but as soon as I mentioned it, Madame G. exclaimed, “Oh, you mustn’t! It’s too dangerous to be out in the streets.”
“Do I look like a Prussian soldier to you? Who will trouble me? I must fetch Maurice and Régine. They’re with Caroline….” I paused as she averted her eyes. “What is it?”
She shook her head in mute distress.
I almost lunged at her before she said, “Your mother took them with her. She had Caroline bring them here. I’m so sorry, Sarah. We did tell her you must be informed, but you know how adamant Julie can be. She said as you went away, forsaking your obligations, why shouldn’t the boy and Régine go with them? Régine was most unhappy about it.”
I clenched my hands so tightly, my nails cut into my palms. “How dare she? Where are they? Where did she take them?”
“She didn’t say.” Madame G. looked ready to abase herself. “But I’m certain wherever they are, it must be safer than here.”
“With a war about to explode around us?” I cried, and as my voice resounded in her garret, I realized all the worry I’d kept at bay had finally overwhelmed me. I felt light-headed, on the verge of frenzy. My son, my child—he was with Julie, while I was here, in a city about to be invaded.
“What shall I do?” I said, loathing my own helplessness.
“Stay here with me,” quavered Madame G. “What else can you do?”
* * *
After three days of seclusion, I couldn’t abide another moment. The Prussians weren’t marching in yet, I informed Madame G., and I decided to make my way to the Odéon. I needed information. Afterwards, I’d proceed to my flat on the rue de Rome. I was worried about my pets and could only hope Caroline had had the foresight to tend to them, as she hadn’t with Maurice and Régine. Madame G. kept telling me that my maid had no idea what Julie was planning when she was summoned to bring Maurice and Régine, and she burst into tears when Julie snatched my son and sister from her, then sent her away.
Perhaps, but I was still irate. I thought my mother must have mentioned where they were headed, but in the fluster of the moment, Madame G. failed to hear it. If Caroline knew where my son and sister were, I was going to fetch them myself despite the entire Prussian army or even King Wilhelm himself. Even if I had to walk the entire way.
I soon discovered it wouldn’t be so simple.
Hailing a carriage was impossible, for there were none to be found. I had to trudge on foot to the 4th arrondissement, my feet blistering as I tried to wave down overladen carts and anything else on wheels, to no avail. As I neared the Odéon, I saw the marquee empty, the glass-enclosed placards by the ticket office displaying shreds of last season’s playbills.
Then I began to notice the men in tattered blue and white uniforms, so covered in grime and rusty splotches that at first I thought they were vagrants who’d stolen military attire. Some held each other upright, staggering down the boulevard, the few passersby going out of their way to avoid the pathetic sight. Others huddled in exhaustion in the Place du Châtelet before the Odéon, gaunt and bleary-eyed, too tired to even reach out their palms to beg for a sou.
As I passed them, I couldn’t stop staring. Like inert mounds, they lay there; like refuse, discarded and left to rot. The sight of their haggard, haunted expressions drove through me like a blade. These were not vagrants. These were our soldiers, sent by our emperor to fight for our cause. I had no idea why they were here and not off killing Prussians, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. How could they be left unattended like this? Had we lost all sense of duty or pride?
At the theater, I banged on the front doors until a rheumy stagehand with cataract-filmed eyes cracked open the portal. “I’m Sarah Bernhardt,” I barked at him. “Let me in this instant.” Inside, I found the Odéon in dismal shape, already a ghost, the chandeliers draped in dust cloths, the detritus of the interrupted repairs—stepladders, hammers, and pails with hardened plaster—strewn about like the relics of an apocalypse.
The stagehand responded to my pointed inquiries by telling me that the directors had closed the theater and were preparing to depart Paris. He didn’t appear to recognize me.
“But they haven’t left yet?” My voice caught as I began to understand the situation must be dire indeed for de Chilly to abandon his place of business. Duquesnel, yes; I could see him leaving. He wouldn’t want to be caught up in any trouble, but de Chilly always kept an eye to profit. If he’d forsaken this theater, where he spent more time than with his
own family, the situation must be more severe than I thought.
“Monsieur Duquesnel is still here—” the stagehand started to say.
I bolted past him to charge up the main staircase, past the second-tier boxes to the third floor, where the offices were located.
When I burst in, my heart in my throat, Duquesnel looked up wearily from a stack of papers on de Chilly’s desk. “Sarah. I thought you were in Vichy.”
I looked around him. The office was in disarray, drawers yanked open, the safe where receipts were stored open and empty, papers strewn everywhere, as if a windstorm had gusted through the room and overturned anything not bolted to the floor.
“We’re at war,” I said, breathless.
“You heard.” He looked as tired as the soldiers outside, his shirt collar askew over his rumpled waistcoat, days of stubble on his cheeks, and his eyes sunken in shadow. The sight of him only added to my alarm; ever the dandy, Duquesnel would never before have let himself appear so disheveled. “Not the most opportune time to return, I’m afraid. I was just finishing up here. We are, of course, closed until further notice.”
I drew in a shallow breath. “Is it truly so bad?”
He gave an arid chuckle. “Sarah, we’ve lost the war. The emperor was defeated and captured at Sedan. A new government has declared itself as our Third Republic and removed itself to Tours, leaving us under the defense of the National Guard, which vows we must never surrender, for whatever that’s worth. A catastrophe. The end of France as we know it. Did you not see the soldiers outside or read any newspapers? The Prussians are a day or so away. Within the week, Paris will fall under siege.”
I had to reach for a chair, though I couldn’t sink onto it. Duquesnel came forth and toppled the pile of playbills on it to the floor. “Sit. You look like a catastrophe yourself. Why did you come back? You should have stayed in Vichy.”
The First Actress Page 21
