At any rate, even in the darkest days of the siege, Sarah Bernhardt’s wounded never lacked for anything essential. She set every woman and child of her acquaintance to work making bandages and folding lint. I myself worked eight hours a day so doing. How I loved Sarah Bernhardt in those days! She seemed to me to be glory personified.
When the siege began there were, according to official statistics, 220,000 sheep, 40,000 oxen and 12,000 pigs within the city limits. This, said the authorities, was ample to provide for the wants of Paris for five or six months. And so it would have been—if they had not forgotten that a live lamb or ox or pig needs to be fed as well as the human beings who are subsequently to eat them! They had brought this vast army of animals to Paris, but they had forgotten to bring in sufficient quantities of forage to feed them.
All the public buildings were used for storing either food or munitions. The Opéra, which had not then been officially opened, was organised as a gigantic warehouse by Charles Garnier, its architect, and it was discovered that a river of fresh water flowed underneath its cellars.
Sarah Bernhardt had had her hospital in full working order for six weeks before she discovered that all the cellars underneath the Odéon were filled with boxes of cartridges and cases of shells! Since the Germans could have shelled the Odéon point blank from the heights of Bellevue or Montretout, there was some excuse for the urgent protest she made in person to Rochefort, that these munitions should be removed and her wounded relieved from the necessity of lying on a powder mine. Rochefort saw that the necessary orders were given.
As winter dragged on, the siege became a wearisome thing, but the courage of the Parisians could not be daunted. Cut off from all communication with the outside world, and even from their fugitive armies in the South; starving and nearly at an end of their resources, there was nevertheless no real thought of surrender. The Germans said Paris could not hold out a month. It had already held out two.
The hardest thing was to keep up the spirits of the people, and in this Sarah Bernhardt again took a leading part. The police had closed the theatres, and many of these, like the Odéon and the Opéra, were being used for purposes of national defence. But it was felt that some amusements should be provided, so Pasdeloup, the famous conductor, was asked to organise a committee of singers, musicians and stage-folk to see if some way could not be found of getting over the difficulty. Eventually, on October 23, Pasdeloup gave his first concert, and shortly afterwards Lescouvé re-opened the Comédie Française.
Sarah Bernhardt organised a scratch theatrical company from among those of the actors and actresses of the Odéon who were available, rehearsed several stock plays and gave them in the open air, for the benefit of the troops of the National Guard, who were encamped on the fortifications and in the parks.
In November Pierre Berton re-appeared—an older, bearded, strange-looking Berton. He had been in that part of the army which was cut off from Paris, and had only reached the capital by slipping past the German sentries at the peril of his life.
“But why did you not stay in the country, where you were safe, and where your family is?” he was asked. It was true—his mistress and his children had long ago escaped to Tours.
“What?—stay out of Paris, and she here?” he demanded, pointing to Sarah Bernhardt.