The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  “My son…” Tears sprang to my eyes. I couldn’t stop them as I choked out the news that my mother had taken Maurice away with her to who knew where.

  Duquesnel lit a cigarette and handed me his case; I rarely smoked, finding the vice, as so many vices, more enticing to behold than indulge, but I now took one, striking the match with a trembling hand and coughing on the acrid inhale.

  He regarded me. “If Maurice and your family have left, it’s for the best. You should leave, too. Our new government may vow to resist, but we have no emperor. No order. A provisional government is only that. Whoever stays in the city is doomed.”

  I returned his gaze. The resignation in his expression enraged me, bringing back the haunting sight of all the men outside in their soiled uniforms. “Like those soldiers in the Place? Are we going to let them just die there? Let Paris die? Let France die because of Louis-Napoléon and his absurd nonsense?”

  “Really, Sarah, I don’t see what we can do about it.” Duquesnel turned back to sorting through the papers on the desk. “We’d barely started the repairs before this absurd nonsense, as you call it, erupted. We can’t stage plays to an empty house and—”

  “Who said anything about staging plays?” I cut in, with more censure than he deserved. He’d been a complacent lover and champion, so I should have shown some empathy. After all, he only stated the obvious. Instead, I had to swallow my disgust at his cowardice, his unwillingness to look beyond his own interests. “If the theater is closed because of this silly war, we might as well put it to good use.”

  “Good use?” he echoed, as if I’d uttered an obscenity.

  “Yes. Those soldiers out there fought for Louis-Napoléon. For us. They need our care. Why aren’t they in a hospital where they belong, rather than left to wander like beggars?”

  He sighed. “Every hospital is full. We have more wounded soldiers than beds to accommodate them. What part of our defeat and the Prussians coming to lay siege do you fail to understand? Most of Paris is fleeing as we speak.”

  I stood, stubbing my unsmoked cigarette in his ashtray. “Then we must care for the soldiers here. We’ll turn the theater into an infirmary.”

  “An infirmary? Here? Go home, Sarah. Fetch whoever is left of your family and get as far away as you can. This is not the time to play the lead actress.”

  I stepped toward him, my heels crushing the playbills underfoot. “This is our city. Our country. We must do something. I have nowhere to go. Those soldiers have nowhere to go. And you have nowhere to go. We can do this much. I’ll oversee everything,” I said, focusing on the despair beyond our doors and this shred of hope, of purpose, to move forward amidst the incomprehensible. “Do you want us to be called cowards who abandoned our nation in her hour of need?”

  “I hardly think our cowardice is of any concern,” he replied, but his voice thawed. “An infirmary…De Chilly will have an apoplexy. But,” he added, “the House of Molière will have an even greater one, once they hear we opened our doors to wounded soldiers. The Conservatoire has already been requisitioned as a military ward, so your suggestion is, as always, inconvenient, but the height of current fashion.”

  I had to stifle sudden laughter. Publicity. He never failed to glean an opportunity. I didn’t care, reprehensible as it might be. Whatever moved him, providing he allowed it.

  “True. And once this war is done, we’ll be called heroic. Imagine our box office then.”

  “Or fools who let themselves be trapped in a city under siege.” He paused. “How do you propose to go about it? We’ll need supplies. Food. Cots. Dressings and medicine. Nurses and doctors, if you can find them. You’ll have to offer something in return.”

  “I can sell the jewel Louis-Napoléon gave me,” I said, thinking quickly “We can also request donations from those of our patrons still in Paris. They know my name; they came here to see me perform. Surely not everyone has fled yet. And our new government cannot want our legions dying in the streets; it’s terrible for morale. I’ll petition whomever I must. If the Conservatoire has been requisitioned, they must be in need of more infirmaries.”

  He let out another sigh. “I suppose you can try. The National Guard has set up its headquarters in the Tuileries. As for de Chilly, he’s in no position to complain, as he left the city three days ago. But,” he said, as I turned to the door, “you must oversee everything yourself. And if the situation becomes as dire as I believe it will, we cannot stay. We may not have anywhere to go, but once the Germans march into Paris, we’d best find some place to hide, because they’ll grant us no quarter.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at him. “Can I use your fiacre?”

  “Yes.” He lowered his eyes to his papers. “Be careful. A horse and carriage are more valuable right now than your imperial jewel.”

  The driver wasn’t amused, but Duquesnel had given his permission, so the ill-tempered man had no choice other than to convey me to the rue de Rome, whipping his horse into a lathered froth and shouting dire threats at anyone who sought to impede our passage. Not that anyone did. Paris looked deserted, our once-lively streets devoid of activity, the cafés and restaurants shuttered, with only a few stragglers crossing our path, pushing wheelbarrows piled with belongings, though where they intended to go with their candelabras, fine china, and paintings was a mystery to me.

  While I gripped the fiacre’s upholstered leather seat as we rattled over the cobblestones, the reality of what we faced clutched me like a talon. Paris was bracing for the unthinkable: a foreign army, glutted on carnage, marching toward us to sack us into submission. I could only imagine the hysteria at the gare as people clamored to get onto any remaining trains, perching upon the very carriage rooftops, providing they could get that far. But not everyone would escape; not everyone had the means or a place to escape to. A siege might be horrible, but being trapped in the countryside by an encroaching Prussian army would be worse. At least in Paris, we had some form of resistance. This provisional government must have troops at the ready. Here, we could shelter in place as our forces battled the incoming assault.

  Or so I kept telling myself as the fiacre came to a halt outside the building of my new apartment, barely occupied by me since my cottage had burned down. After instructing the scowling driver to wait, I climbed the stairs to the second floor, rummaging in my bag for my keys when the door creaked ajar.

  Caroline’s wan face peered out from behind the chain latch. “Mademoiselle Bernhardt?” she said, as if she, too, failed to recognize me.

  “Who else? Undo the latch this instant.”

  As soon as I entered my apartment, which was submerged in gloom from the curtains drawn over every window, my four dogs rushed at me, barking and yelping, leaping up to be petted, lavishing me with desperate affection. As I caressed them, their ribs were palpable under their lusterless fur.

  “Are you starving them?” I whirled toward Caroline.

  “Not at first, but…” She kneaded her dress. She looked no better, thin and very pale, as if she’d been secluded indoors for weeks. “There’s no more meat in the shops.”

  “How can there be no meat?” I declared, but my indignation was muted. I’d left her plenty of money, but if food was growing scarce, francs couldn’t be eaten.

  She let out a moan. “I tried to stop her, but she insisted, even though I begged her to let me notify you first. I would have gone with them, but the dogs, your parrot…How could I abandon them here?”

  “You might have asked Madame Guérard to care for them,” I said, as the dogs sat at my feet, gazing imploringly at me as if I had steaks stashed in my pockets.

  She nodded in abject misery. “I didn’t think of it.”

  “You certainly did not.” I forced myself to soften my voice. “But I know my mother too well to believe you might have prevailed against her.” I paused. I feared the very question, but it had to be ask
ed. “Do you know where they went?”

  “To Holland. To visit your grandparents, she said.”

  “Impossible. I don’t recall her once mentioning my grandparents, even in passing.”

  “She claims she’s been sending them money all these years. She said it was time they met their granddaughters and her grandson in person.”

  I clenched my jaw. “The nerve. Her grandson. Whom she called a bastard to my face before throwing both of us out of her house.”

  “But he’s safe,” said Caroline. “There’s no war in Holland, is there?”

  “Not until I get there.” I heaved out a sigh. “There’s nothing to be done about it now. Pack your things and leash the dogs. And my parrot. Cover his cage. We’re leaving.”

  “To Holland?” she said, in astonishment.

  I snorted. “To my mother’s flat. She left Madame Guérard an extra set of keys. I want dog hair and bird droppings on every one of her settees and rugs. Once we settle in and I attend to what needs to be done, then we shall go to Holland to fetch my son.”

  * * *

  —

  Ignoring the driver’s protests, I instructed him to strap the valises to the back of the carriage as Caroline, my dogs, and I squeezed onto the seat, my cawing parrot in his cage on my lap. We were driven at jolting speed to my mother’s district, the driver so furious by the time we arrived that he was spewing threats of getting caught by the Prussians while ferrying me back and forth. I gave him a handful of francs to mollify him and coax him to help us lug the valises to my mother’s door.

  Madame G. went white at my demand, but she unlocked the flat. Unfastening the leashes, I watched my dogs bound into my mother’s salon, catching Maurice and Régine’s scent and tracking them all over the apartment, mournfully howling when they failed to locate my son or younger sister.

  “Food,” I said to Madame G. “They’ve not eaten in days.”

  “We won’t, either, if we give them what we have. Sarah, all the market stalls are empty. Whatever is available is extremely overpriced—” At my glare, she went silent.

  We fed the dogs. The poor creatures devoured the boiled chicken we served on my mother’s china, and Caroline filled my mottled parrot’s dish with apple slices.

  “Now what shall we do to sustain ourselves?” said Madame G. “That was all we had. Besides the vegetable soup on my stove, the larder is empty.”

  “We’ll make do.” I sat on the settee, cradling my lapdog Lulu as she gratefully licked my face with her poultry-tinged tongue. “You and Caroline will go out tomorrow to buy up whatever you can find, while I go to the Tuileries to petition this new government of ours.”

  “Petition?” Madame G. regarded me, aghast, as much at my statement as my command that she must venture into the city with Caroline. “What for? They won’t give you a thing. We’re at war; whatever they have must be reserved for the soldiers.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Exhausted, I closed my eyes, snuggling my dog close.

  I didn’t know if they would grant me anything or shout me out of the headquarters, but I wasn’t going to take refusal for an answer.

  IX

  Sandbags barricaded the Tuileries. Volunteer soldiers patrolled the grounds, clad in an assortment of ill-fitting garments and armed with assorted weaponry. At least not every able-bodied man had deserted us in our hour of need, but my courage quailed as I presented myself at the front gate and was led into an inner courtyard and before an imposing desk, there to impede unauthorized entry. The able-bodied men stared at me in my bonnet and bustled skirts, for I’d dressed for the occasion and the weather. It was unusually cold for September, with the bitter frost of winter already chilling the air.

  The officer seated at the desk ran an ink-stained finger down a list scrawled in a ledger. “No,” he said. “We have no Sarah Bernhardt here.”

  Despite my ire—was he deaf?—I repeated in as sweet a tone as I could muster, “I’m not on your list because I’m not expected. I’m here on official inquiry, however. I am the lead actress at the Odéon and we wish to open a—”

  “Actress?” He chortled. “You’re early. The siege hasn’t started yet. Wait awhile. You may be of use later.” His intimation was crude, causing the soldiers nearby to guffaw.

  I lifted my chin. “Who is in charge here, my good man?”

  “You’re looking at him, mademoiselle. At your service.” As he leered, I said again, in a far less dulcet tone, “Who is the prefect of this establishment? You’ve no idea whom you are addressing. I once performed before His Imperial Majesty. I’m not accustomed to insults.”

  In my coat pocket, I had Louis-Napoléon’s jewel wrapped in a handkerchief. I was prepared to pawn it, but not to this lout.

  His face closed into a snarl. “And our prefect, Comte de Kératry, is not accustomed to receiving actress whores in his headquarters.”

  His disparagement was lost in the faintness that overcame me. I must have swayed, lost my color, for as his expression faltered—having the actress whore collapse at his feet would not do—I heard myself say as if from across an abyss, “Comte de Kératry?”

  He recovered his superiority. “Were we not aware who the prefect is, mademoiselle-actress-who-performed-before-His-Imperial-Majesty-himself?”

  I forced myself to not turn about and flee. “Please inform the comte that Sarah Bernhardt is here. We…we are previously acquainted.”

  “Are you, now? Shall we set you up in the empress’s bedchamber or would you prefer—”

  “Enough.” Kératry’s voice slashed him to silence. “How dare you.”

  I lifted my eyes. I didn’t want to, but I did. And there he stood, handsome as ever, in a blue wool greatcoat with its lynx-fur collar upright about his angular jaw, his mustachios trimmed to waxed points, his green eyes locked on me as he said to his officer, “We do not disparage civilians here.” To my amazement, he extended his hand. “Sarah, come with me.”

  I followed him into the palace, through gilded passageways to one of the imperial secretariat chambers. He motioned to a plush red velvet chair opposite his desk. “Please accept my apologies. As you’ve just seen, we may be all that stands between France and ruin, but our National Guard sorely lacks proper manners.”

  I couldn’t speak, unable to fathom that of all the men in Paris, the prefect of our defense was none other than the very man who’d sired my son and thrown me out of his house, whom I’d vowed to never ask anything of again. In my skirt pocket, the jewel felt like a rock. I couldn’t offer it to him. It was unthinkable of me to attempt to bribe him.

  “Sarah,” he went on quietly, sensing my dismay. “I can see this is as much of a surprise to you as it is to me. Why are you here?”

  I swallowed. I found no judgment in his expression, only a profound weariness that mirrored Duquesnel’s, who even now was laboring alongside hired carpenters to remove the rows of seating in our theater to make room for cots.

  “I’m the lead actress at the Odéon,” I finally said.

  “I know. And, as I understand, applauded by Louis-Napoléon himself.”

  “Not everything they said about us is true,” I replied, bristling.

  “I do not doubt it. What can I do for the lead actress of the Odéon?”

  “We…” I strengthened my voice. “We request a permit to open an infirmary in the theater.” I paused once more, expecting his incredulous laughter. But he regarded me in sober consideration, as a gentleman should. If he saw no reason to cite our last encounter, neither would I. Yet I also thought I saw relief surface in his gaze. He might not mention it, but he hadn’t forgotten. It would have pleased me under any other circumstance.

  “Are you certain?” he asked at length, and when I nodded, he said, “Permit granted. I assume you understand the responsibilities. The Prussians have been sighted on the outskirts of the cit
y. We’ve dispatched regiments to keep them at bay and sent word for a parlay with their generals, but they’ll insist on unconditional surrender. Which, of course, we cannot concede. There’ll be many wounded before this siege is done, and we’ll need every infirmary we authorize to remain open for the duration.”

  “Of course. We require—” I searched my tasseled bag for the list of supplies I’d drawn up with Duquesnel.

  “Everything, I presume.” He took the list from me but didn’t peruse it. “I have supplies here. Medicine. Dressings. Food. I can give you milk, cheese, vegetables, sugar, potatoes, legumes, eggs, and coffee. And live hens and geese, if you have a place to pen and slaughter them. Did you bring a cart or shall I have the supplies delivered this afternoon?”

  “This afternoon?” I echoed, taken aback by his efficiency.

  “It is why you’re here, isn’t it? Not everyone wishes to serve our cause; that you do means something. I’ll inform those of my friends who remain in the city, as well. The Rothschilds, for one, are supporters of the arts. I’m sure they’ll be willing to assist, once they hear you’re involved. Your name carries weight, and not only for a slap.”

  He hadn’t forgotten a thing. “Would that we could resolve this silly war with a slap to Wilhelm and Louis-Napoléon,” I remarked.

  He smiled. “Alas, I fear they’re too occupied slapping each other.”

  My gaze faltered, dropping from his face to his fur collar. “If we’re going to last for the duration, we’ll need coats to keep our patients warm.” It was a perverse impulse on my part, and I wondered why I felt the need to humiliate him after all this time. In the end, he’d done me a favor. He’d given me my Maurice.

  He emptied his pockets onto his desk and removed his coat. “My scarf, as well?” He reached to the white silk cravat at his throat.

  “That won’t be necessary.” I grasped the coat, bundling it under my arm as I came to my feet. “But please tell your friends that all articles of clothing would be welcome.”