“It lasted an hour and a half, but I did not feel the slightest pain either then or afterwards. I have had no fever at all. At the present moment my temperature is not above 97°. For two days the chloroform rather annoyed me, and I had touches of nausea, but that was all. The only pain I had was what I inflicted on my son by running the risk. Poor boy! it’s the first time I have ever made him suffer of my own free will!”
My eyes wandered round the room. Apart from a few roses and orchids, there was nothing on the mantelpiece and tables but portraits of Maurice Bernhardt as a child, as a youth, and as he is to-day. There was also a marble bust of him.
“Look!” said Sarah, “there are his first shoe and his first shirt.”
Hanging from the corner of a mirror were a tiny little white patent-leather shoe, all shrivelled by time, and a shirt that might have fitted a doll.
“They never leave me,” she added. “When I travel, I take them with me, and I felt I must have them here. I believe they bring me good luck.”
Before taking leave I inquired as to the probable duration of the convalescence.
“At the end of the week,” was the reply, “I shall be able to get up. Within ten days I shall take a walk in the garden, and within a fortnight I am to go to St. Germain and complete my convalescence at the Pavillon Henri IV. Come and see me soon and we will talk.”
I took advantage of the permission, and in the course of my visits I was able to take down, from the great artiste’s own lips, the information contained in these pages, by far the greater part of which information will be new to the public.
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and her son Maurice at the age of five.