One evening I decided to go to the playhouse, in the wings, and I was shocked at Carvalho's appearance. He was always so alert and carried himself so well, but now he was bent and his eyes were bloodshot behind his blue glasses. Nevertheless his good humor and gentleness toward me were the same as ever.
His condition could but cause me anxiety.
How true my sad presentiments were!
My poor director was to die on the third day.
Almost at the same time I learned that Daudet, whose life had been so admirably rounded out, had heard his last hour strike on the clock of time. Oh mysterious, implacable Timepiece! I felt one of its sharpest strokes.
Carvalho's funeral was followed by a considerable crowd. His son burst into sobs behind his funeral car and could scarcely see. Everything in that sad, impressive procession was painful and heartrending.
Daudet's obsequies were celebrated with great pomp at Sainte Clotilde. La Solitude from Sapho (the entr'acte from the fifth act) was played during the service after the chanting of the Dies Irae.
I was obliged to make my way almost by main force through the great crowd to get into the church. It was like a hungry, eager reflection of that long line of admirers and friends he had during his lifetime.
As I sprinkled holy water on the casket, I recalled my last visit to the Rue de Bellechasse where Daudet lived. I had gone to give him news of the theater and carried him sprays of eucalyptus, one of the trees of the South he adored. I knew what intense pleasure that would give him.
Meanwhile Sapho went on its way. I went to Saint Raphael, the country where Carvalho had liked to live.