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.