Her influence on Pierre Berton was somewhat of a different sort, but this was his and not her fault. Berton had an excessively jealous temperament, as I found out for myself later on.
Victor Hugo had returned in triumph to Paris from his secret place of exile, and Pierre Berton was asked to read his poem “Les Chatiments,” the daring and somewhat terrible masterpiece that is credited with having been chiefly responsible for the spread of anti-imperialist feeling in France. It was a forbidden work under the Empire and had previously only been read in secret in the clubs.
Berton read the poem in the Théâtre Lyrique, before a great and enthusiastic crowd. Sarah refused to attend. She still felt some bitterness against Victor Hugo, for, though she now called herself a Republican—it was dangerous to term oneself anything else—she had preserved cherished memories of the Emperor, the Empress, and the Court in which her acting had once produced a sensation.
She had never forgotten that simple act of generous courtesy, when the Emperor Napoleon had descended from his throne to kiss her on the cheek, in recognition both of her beauty and her art. He might be a prisoner in Germany and they might call him an imbecile, but she remembered him as a very gentle friend. And the Empress—who had escaped from Paris in the carriage of an American dentist—it was she who had commanded the performance at the Tuileries, and it was she who had personally sent a note of thanks to Sarah at the theatre on the following day.
Sarah’s memories of Royalty were inspiring. And she had hardly become accustomed to Republicanism when the existing Government was swept away with the Capitulation of Paris, and the horrors of the Commune introduced.
Sarah saw Paris set on fire by the maniacs who said they were “saving the nation”; saw many of her friends in political circles shot dead without trial; feared, like many others, that the Terror was come again. And, to add to her trouble, a man whom she had been at some pains to make an enemy was appointed chief of police!
This man was Raoul Rigault, a youngster of thirty. He had been one of that student band who established Sarah’s fame, and had presumed on this fact to send her loving verses, and on one occasion a play in bad verse, which she promptly returned through Berton as being “unfit for her to handle, let alone read.” Rigault was furious and swore vengeance.
When the Commune came, Rigault was appointed Préfect of Police, and he visited Sarah at her flat, situated, after another move on her part, in the Boulevard Malesherbes.
“It depends upon you, mademoiselle,” he said, “whether there is war or peace between us.”
Sarah, angered beyond measure at this insult, sprang up and struck him on the face with the palm of her hand. Then she ordered him to be shown the door.