Sarah was twenty-six years old when war was declared between France and Germany. At three o’clock in the afternoon of July 19, 1870, I, a child still in short frocks, was present with my mother at her apartment in the rue de Rome.

A rehearsal was in progress for some play, the name of which I have forgotten, and Sarah was reading the script in her beautiful, expressive voice, running her hand through my hair as she did so, when a servant came in and announced that she was wanted at the door.

“What is it?” Sarah demanded, angry at the interruption.

“A messenger from the Foreign Ministry,” said the servant. “He is in a great hurry and has instructions to deliver his message to none but yourself, madame, personally.”

Sarah laid down the manuscript and went out of the room. Two minutes later she was back, and I can remember to this day how white her face was, how brilliant her marvellous eyes. She held up her hand, in which was a long envelope, and bade everyone be silent. The twenty or twenty-five people present were quiet at once and looked at her expectantly.

“We have declared war!” she cried, and the echo of that golden voice, vibrating with emotion, is with me yet.

At once the room was in a buzz of excitement. Everybody was speaking at once. ThÉophile Gautier, the bookworm, who was present, made his voice heard through the din.

“They are mad—mad!” he exclaimed. Then he went to Bernhardt.

“From whom comes your information, mademoiselle?” he asked.

“From Captain LescouvÉ, deputy of the chef du cabinet of Monsieur Ollivier.”

Ollivier was the Premier who had declared war under the pressure of the “imbecile emperor.”

Jane Essler, a famous artiste of her time, who had been sitting in a chair lazily watching the scene with an expression of calm indifference, suddenly jumped to her feet.

“Come, let us go to the Boulevards!” she cried.

“Aux boulevards!” We were swept away by excitement.

“No; let us go to the OdÉon!” shouted Sarah, and this new suggestion met with a frenzy of approval.

“A l’OdÉon! A l’OdÉon! Vive la guerre!”

When we came down from the flat the Boulevard Haussmann, or the street now known by that name, was alive with people. Any passage of vehicles was impossible, so we went on foot through the rue Auber as far as the OpÉra.

Here there was an enormous crowd. The great Place was literally surging with people. On the walls of the OpÉra itself huge posters had been pasted but a few minutes before. I remember that some of our party tore them down and stuffed them into their pockets as souvenirs. The posters explained the abrupt action of the Government, and enjoined the people to remain calm. “Victory is assured,” was one phrase that stands out in my mind.

Carried along by the crowd, we were swept down the Avenue de l’OpÉra. Opposite the ThÉÂtre FranÇais was another huge crowd. Marie Lloyd—an actress who, by the way, had been Sarah’s competitor at the Conservatoire, and who had gained the first prize which Sarah had coveted—was standing by the statue of MoliÈre, singing the Marseillaise. Every time she came to “Marchons! Marchons!” the thousands of people present took up the refrain, and again and again the words of the magnificent old song were repeated.

Our party got separated here, and only five of us managed to reach the Pont Neuf, which, crossing the Seine, led almost directly to the OdÉon. I was being partly carried, partly dragged by my mother, and was so wildly excited that I felt no fatigue, in spite of the considerable distance we had come.

An empty fiacre passed. The poet, Robert de Montesquiou, then a boy of nineteen, but even at that time one of Sarah’s firm friends, hailed it. The cocher looked at him insolently.

“A l’OdÉon!” said Robert.

“It is five francs!” replied the cocher.

The distance was not more than seven hundred yards, and the fare ordinarily should have been only one franc. De Montesquiou was indignant and started a violent protest, but suddenly the cocher caught sight of Sarah Bernhardt.

“It is ‘our Sarah’?” he exclaimed. “Then I’m a dog! Come, I will take you all, and for nothing!”

I remember that Sarah climbed up on the box next to the old coachman and gave him two resounding kisses, one on each bronzed cheek. It appeared that the cocher was a regular subscriber at the OdÉon!

When we arrived at the theatre we hurried round to the stage door and trooped up into the wings. There we found Chilly, Duquesnel and others talking on the stage in loud voices. When they saw us, they set up a shout.

“VoilÀ Bernhardt!”

Chilly hurriedly explained that the Government had requested that the theatre should be reserved that night for a patriotic demonstration, at which some of its members would be present.

“The Emperor will be here also,” he went on, “and has specially requested that you will open the proceedings by singing the Marseillaise.”

The doors opened at six o’clock. By 6.30 the theatre was packed. The speeches were to begin an hour later. Sarah was supposed to open the meeting, but when the time came she could not be found anywhere.

Distracted officials searched the theatre high and low, shouting for the missing actress. At last the meeting began without her.

At eight o’clock Pierre Berton walked in through the stage-entrance, followed by Sarah. Berton looked as black as a thundercloud. Sarah’s eyes were flashing, and red spots of temper were on her cheeks. Her friends recognised the signals and the word was passed around: “Something has gone wrong between Pierre and Sarah ... they have had a row.”

Sarah went straight to Duquesnel, who began scolding her for being late. But she cut him short. “I have acted for the last time with that man!” she declared, pointing to Berton.

Pierre looked on bitterly. (All this I had years later, of course, from friends who saw the scene. I had been sent to bed after my fatiguing afternoon.)

“What is the matter?” asked Duquesnel, puzzled but not despairing, for he knew Sarah and her fits of temper, although he feared her obstinacy.

“He is disloyal! He is a pro-German!”

Pierre Berton darted forward with a loud protest.

“It is a lie!” he shouted angrily. “She asked me to come on the stage and sing the Marseillaise with her, and I said I would not, because I disapprove of the war and of the crazy Emperor who has declared it, as does every sensible man in all France. But I am not disloyal! I am not pro-German!”

Sarah refused to listen. “You hear him?” she cried. “He admits it himself! I will not appear with him again! I will not act with traitors!”

At this remark flung at him with the hiss of a whip-lash by the woman he loved and whose career he had made, Berton turned away hiding his face in his arm. Then he walked out of the theatre and was seen no more that night.

A famous journalist of the time, De Girardin, was making a fiery speech, the gist of which was that within a fortnight our troops must be in Berlin.

“A Berlin!” howled the crowd, mad with frenzy. And then, glorious in its full-toned strength, came the voice of Sarah, singing the Marseillaise.

She was standing at the back of the dress circle, and had not been noticed until she began to sing. She was dressed in a white robe with a green girdle—a costume taken from one of her plays—and standing there, as those inspiring notes issued from her splendid throat, she personified the very spirit of France.

“Allons, enfants, de la patrie ...”

The whole audience was on its feet singing, but ever above that volume of sound rose the golden tones of Sarah Bernhardt. Hers was not a singing voice, but now it rang out pure and clear as a bell.

Just as a crystal glass, tapped with the finger-nail, will be heard above the din of a great railway station, so was Sarah Bernhardt’s voice heard above the din and uproar of the OdÉon that night.

When she left the theatre, bands of students seized her and carried her shoulder high along the Boulevard St. Michel, and across the Pont de la CitÉ to the Place de Notre Dame, where still another demonstration was in progress. Again she sang the Marseillaise, and then “Mourir pour la Patrie,” and other patriotic songs.

She was exhausted when she reached home, and had caught a bad cold, which kept her indoors for several days. During this period, however, messengers arrived almost every hour bringing her the news.

Paris, they said, was full of marching troops. The city was still in the throes of excitement. The OpÉra was giving patriotic performances every night, at which Marie Sass was singing the Marseillaise from the balcony, so that all Paris could join in.

The Emperor had gone to the Front. The first clash had occurred sixty miles south of Mayence. The theatres were still open, but there was talk of closing them. The actors were organising a volunteer corps, and some had gone already to the front, but there was a lack of uniforms.

MacMahon had sent word from Reichshoffen that all was well; the morale was fine; they would be in Berlin in a few weeks!

The papers were talking about a rumoured big victory. The Germans in Paris were not to be interned, but were to be kept to do the work of the city.

Sarah Bernhardt shared the popular belief that victory was in sight, that the war was all but over. All the newspapers, every lounger on the boulevards said it—so why should she not believe it to be true?

She went on playing as usual at the OdÉon, singing the Marseillaise whenever requested to do so, but she adhered to her resolution not to play with Pierre Berton; and Duquesnel, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, had carefully arranged the bill so that they would not be called upon to act in the same pieces.

The two seldom met and never spoke. Berton came rarely to the theatre; he was engaged in secret work, which some declared was of a revolutionary nature, but it turned out later that he had organised a corps of volunteers amongst the theatrical people out of work, and was drilling them on the fortifications! Sarah did not know of this at the time.

Victor Hugo, of course, had disappeared from Paris, where his last visit had been made only under pain of instant arrest, if seen; for he had been banished from the capital for his revolutionary writings. But among the papers of Hugo, which were found at his death, was a letter from Pierre Berton, written in August 1870, a month after the declaration of war, and smuggled out of Paris, in which Berton appealed to Hugo to “return and save France!”

And France was in need of saving! No longer were the boulevards filled with maddened patriots, excited by wine and shouting of victory; instead, these same patriots walked about with a grave air, or joined squads of men under training; and when they spoke there was no bravado, but only great determination.

Wissembourg, with the defeat and death of General Douay, had been the first event to startle the Parisian out of his self-satisfaction and ignorance. Then, two days later, came the defeat which definitely turned the tide against France—the rout of Marshal MacMahon, whose army was literally cut to pieces at Freischwiller and Reichshoffen. A human torrent of four hundred thousand men poured over the fields of France. The country was invaded; Paris was in danger.

Paris in danger! The Parisians were not so much inclined to laugh as they had been at first. It was ridiculous, of course—it would take a million and a half men to besiege Paris successfully—but still, but still, there was Wissembourg, and the undeniable evidence of Freischwiller and Reichshoffen!

Count de Palikao, the new head of the Government, was a friend of Sarah’s; that is, he had seen and spoken to her once or twice, and would stop and bow when he met her. One day he sent for her to his office, at the Chamber of Deputies.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, taking her hand, “you can do a great work for your country, if you will!”

Sarah asked him to explain. The Count then said that the Government had noticed how enthusiasm for the war was dying; and that something like panic was imminent in Paris, unless optimism and hope could at once be restored to the hearts of the people.

“That is your task!” he finished.

The Count’s plan was for Sarah to organise a committee of artistes, authors and newspaper writers of her acquaintance, the object of which was to instil into the people of Paris renewed belief in the success of the campaign. More patriotic performances were to be given; patriotic posters were to be drawn up and posted; and every member individually, whether by word of mouth or by articles in the Press, was to affirm his or her belief that victory was near.

Sarah undertook the task with enthusiasm. There is no doubt now that her part in the defence of Paris was a glorious one. There is no doubt, either, that wily old Count de Palikao, being a general and a fine strategist himself, was perfectly well aware even then that Paris was doomed.

Towards the latter part of August the efforts of the volunteer committee fell more and more flat. The people seemed to have sunk into an apathy out of which they could be aroused, only at infrequent intervals, by rumours of victories—which generally turned out to be false. When Sarah sang the Marseillaise now she met with but a feeble response.

And then came Sedan, the overthrow of the Emperor, and the Declaration of the Republic.

Magically, as it seemed, the whole city, which had been shouting its plaudits of Napoleon III. but a few months ago, had turned republican. Nobody would admit to having ever been a royalist! “Vive la RÉpublique” sounded on all hands. When Sarah Bernhardt arrived at the OdÉon that afternoon of September 4—there was no performance and no rehearsal, but she could not stay away—it was to find a group of actors surrounding Pierre Berton, who, with a hammer and chisel, was carefully chipping away the plaster “N” from the front of the royal box.

Sarah stood and watched them for some time and then Berton, descending from the ladder, saw her.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “I was hoping that I should see you!”

Sarah stood speechless. Taking her by the arm, Pierre led her unresistingly aside.

“I leave with my regiment for the Front to-night!” he said.

“Where is your uniform?” demanded Sarah.

“You shall see it!”

Running up to his dressing-room, Berton came down a few minutes later garbed in one of the pitifully nondescript uniforms of the National Guard—a grey kÉpi with a leather peak, a white-and-blue coat and red trousers. On his arm were three galons, showing his rank to be that of captain.

Sarah threw her arms about his neck and kissed him before the entire company. Before nightfall all theatrical Paris knew that Sarah Bernhardt and Pierre Berton were again lovers.

By now thousands of wounded were arriving in Paris, and the temporary hospitals were totally inadequate. Great canvas hospitals were erected on the fortifications, but these had to be withdrawn into the city as the German advance continued. There was an appalling lack of trained nurses, and almost as great a lack of doctors and surgeons. The theatres were closed, and Sarah disappeared for two weeks. When she re-appeared, it was in the uniform of a nurse. She had earned her brevet from working in one of the temporary hospitals, and even in that short time had learned not a little of the art of caring for wounded.

Her next act was to ask permission from the Comte de KÉratry to re-open the OdÉon as a hospital. This permission was readily accorded, but no beds or supplies were forthcoming, and it took all her energy and influence to procure these.

She was alone in Paris. Her son had been sent to Normandy, and her mother and aunts had left at the same time, presumably for Normandy but in reality for England and Holland, whither they took the baby boy. While Sarah imagined her son safely in a small village near Havre, he was really in London, and later at Rotterdam.

During the siege of Paris her family left Rotterdam and went into Germany, and at the very moment when Sarah was caring for the wounded with untiring and devoted energy, her baby boy, in charge of her mother and aunts, was living in the country of the enemy at Wiesbaden. This she did not discover until after the siege was raised. It certainly is the best possible confirmation of the nationality of her mother’s family.