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.”