For some days I was perfectly dazed, missing the usual life around me, and missing the affection of those I loved. The defense, however, was being organized, and I decided to use my strength and intelligence in tending the wounded. The question was where could we install an ambulance?
The Odéon Theater had closed its doors, but I moved heaven and earth to get permission to organize an ambulance at the Odéon, and, thanks to Emile de Girardin and Duquesnel, my wish was granted. I went to the War Office and made my declaration, and my request and my offers were accepted for a military ambulance.
The next difficulty was that I wanted food. I wrote a line to the Prefect of Police. A military courier arrived very soon after my letter, bringing me a note from the prefect, containing the following lines:
Madame: If you could possibly come at once I would wait for you until six o’clock. Excuse the earliness of the hour, but I have to be at the Chamber at nine in the morning, and as your note seems to be urgent, I am anxious to do all I can to be of service to you.
Comte de Kératry.
I remembered a Comte de Kératry who had been introduced to me at my aunt’s house the evening I had recited poetry accompanied by Rossini. He was a young lieutenant, good-looking, witty, and lively. He had introduced me to his mother, a very charming woman, and I had recited poetry at her soirées. The young lieutenant had gone to Mexico and for some time we had kept up a correspondence, but this had gradually ceased, and we had not met again. I asked Mme. Guérard whether she thought that the prefect might be a near relative of my young friend’s. “It may be so,” she replied, and we discussed this in the carriage which was taking us at once to the Tuileries Palace, where the prefect had his offices. My heart was very heavy when we came to the stone steps. Only a few months previously, one April morning, I had been there with Mme. Guérard. Then, as now, a footman had come forward to open the door of my carriage, but the April sunshine had then lighted up the steps, caught the shining lamps of the state carriages, and sent its rays in all directions. There had been a busy, joyful coming and going of the officers, and elegant salutes had been exchanged. On this occasion the misty, crafty-looking November sun fell heavily on all it touched. Black, dirty-looking cabs drove up one after the other, knocking against the iron gate, grazing the steps, advancing or moving back, according to the coarse shouts of their drivers. Instead of the elegant salutations, I heard now such phrases as:
“Well, how are you, old chap?” “Oh, the wooden jaws!” “Well, any news?” “Yes, it’s the very deuce with us!” etc., etc.... The palace was no longer the same. The very atmosphere had changed. The faint perfume which elegant women leave in the air as they pass was no longer there. A vague odor of tobacco, of greasy clothes, of hair plastered with pomatum made the atmosphere seem heavy. Ah, the beautiful French Empress! I could see her again in her blue dress embroidered with silver, calling to her aid Cinderella’s good fairy to help her on again with her little slipper. The delightful young Prince Imperial, too; I could see him helping me to place the pots of verbena and Marguerites, and holding in his arms, which were not strong enough for it, a huge pot of rhododendrons, behind which his handsome face completely disappeared. I could see the Emperor Napoleon III himself, with his half-closed eyes, clapping his hands at the rehearsal of the courtesies intended for him.
The fair Empress, dressed in strange clothes, had rushed away in the carriage of her American dentist, for it was not even a Frenchman, but a foreigner, who had had the courage to protect the unfortunate woman. And the gentle Utopian Emperor had tried in vain to be killed on the battlefield. Two horses had been killed under him, but he had not received so much as a scratch. And after this he had given up his sword. And we, at home, had all wept with anger, shame, and grief at this giving up of the sword. Yet what courage it must have required for this brave man to carry out such an act! He had wanted to save a hundred thousand men, to spare a hundred thousand lives, and to reassure a hundred thousand mothers. Our poor, beloved Emperor! History will some day do him justice, for he was good, humane, and confiding. Alas! alas! he was too confiding!
I stopped a minute before entering the prefect’s suite of rooms. I was obliged to wipe my eyes, and, in order to change the current of my thoughts, I said to my petite dame:
“Tell me, should you think me pretty if you saw me now for the first time?”