Accustomed to facile successes with women, Damala carried his infidelities to extremes. In almost every town they visited there was a new betrayal to register; and Damala now scarcely took the trouble to conceal his double life from Sarah.
One can imagine the mortification all this caused to such a proud nature as hers.
From being the idol of two hemispheres she was fast becoming (as she knew well) the laughing-stock of France; and the sole reason for her misfortunes was her insane action in marrying a man who did not understand even the first principles of honour. In place of a ring he had given her a cross to bear; and the cross was the condescending amusement of the multitudes who, a few months previously, had been ready to fall down and worship her as a demi-goddess.
“She cannot be much, after all,” said the man in the street. “See, her husband betrays her right before her eyes!”
“All those stories about her must have been true!” thought the staid and virtuous members of society. “Even her husband cannot live with her for more than a month!”
The cruellest fact about mob-psychology is that a mob is invariably ready to believe the worst. The Parisians now discovered with intense satisfaction that their idol’s feet were made of clay.
“C’est le ridicule qui tue,” declared a great French essayist. Ridicule was killing Sarah.
Never before had I seen Sarah Bernhardt suffer so fearfully from the ravages of jealousy, nor did she ever suffer so again.
Her face, within a few short months, lost that girlish look which had been its greatest charm. Lines came to features that had previously been clear of them. She became dispirited; could not be consoled; would sit for hours by herself; seemed to take little interest in what was going on about her.
Then Damala would return, like a truant schoolboy; and, after the usual scene of anger, all would be well—until the next time.