I shook the hand of that worthy gentleman and thanked him this time as well as I could for his fine poem, then I spoke to him of his other poems, a volume of which I had obtained at New York, for, alas! to my shame I must acknowledge it, I knew nothing about Fréchette up to the time of my departure from France, and yet he was already known a little in Paris.
He was very touched with the several lines I dwelt upon as the finest of his work. He thanked me for doing so. We remained friends.
The day following, nine o’clock had hardly struck, when a card was sent up to me on which were written these words: “He who had the joy of saving you, madame, begs that your kindness will grant him a moment’s interview.” I directed that the man be shown into the drawing-room, and after notifying Jarrett, went to waken my sister. “Come with me,” I said. She slipped on a Chinese dressing gown and we went in the direction of the huge, immense drawing-room of my apartment, for a bicycle would have been necessary to traverse my rooms, drawing-rooms and dining-room, for the whole length without fatigue. On opening the door I was struck with the beauty of the man who was before me. He was very tall, with wide shoulders, small head, a hard look, hair thick and curly, tanned complexion. The man was fine looking but seemed uneasy. He blushed slightly on seeing me. I expressed my gratitude and asked to be excused for my foolish weakness. I received joyfully the bouquet of violets he handed me. On taking leave he said in a low tone: “If ever you hear who I am, swear that you will only think of the slight service I have rendered you.” At that moment Jarrett entered with white face. He went up to the stranger and spoke to him in English. I could, however, catch the words: “detective ... door ... assassination ... impossibility ... New Orleans....”
His sunburnt complexion became chalky, his nostrils quivered as he looked toward the door. Then, as flight appeared impossible, he looked at Jarrett and in a peremptory tone, as cold as flint, said “Well” as he went toward the door. My hands, which had opened under the stupor, let fall his bouquet which he picked up, looking at me with a supplicating and appealing air. I understood and said to him in a loud tone of voice, “I swear to it, monsieur.” The man disappeared with his flowers. I heard the uproar of people behind the door, and of the crowd in the street. I did not wish to listen to anything further.
When my sister, of a romantic and foolish turn of mind, wished to tell me about the horrible thing, I closed my ears.
Four months afterwards, when an attempt was made to read aloud to me an account of his death by hanging I refused to hear anything about it. And now after twenty-six years have passed and I know, I only wish to remember the service rendered and my pledged word. This incident left me somewhat sad. The anger of the Bishop of Montreal was necessary to enable me to regain my good humor. That prelate, after holding forth in the pulpit against the immorality of French literature, forbade his flock to go to the theater. His charge was violent and spiteful against modern France. As to Scribe’s play, “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” he tore it into shreds, as it were, disclaiming against the immoral love of the comedienne and of the hero and against the adulterous love of the Princess of Bouillon. But the truth showed itself in spite of all, and he cried out with fury intensified by outrage—“In this infamous lucubration there are French authors, a court abbé who, thanks to the unbounded licentiousness of his expressions, constitutes a direct insult to the clergy.” Finally, he pronounced an anathema against Scribe, who was already dead, against Legouvé, against me, and against all my company. The result was that crowds came from everywhere, and the four presentations, “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” “Froufrou,” “La Dame aux Camélias” (afternoon performance), and “Hernani,” had a colossal success and brought in fabulous receipts.
CORNER IN SARAH BERNHARDT’S PARIS HOME, SHOWING PORTRAIT BY CHARTRAN.
I was invited by the poet Fréchette and a banker whose name I do not remember to make a visit to Ottawa. I accepted with joy, and went there accompanied by my sister, Jarrett, and Angelo, who was always ready for a dangerous excursion; I felt in safety in the presence of that artist, full of bravery and composure, and gifted with herculean strength. The only thing he lacked to make him perfect was talent. He had none then and never did have any.
The St. Lawrence River was frozen over almost entirely; we crossed it in a carriage along a route indicated on the river by two rows of branches fixed in the ice. We had four carriages; the distance between Ottawa and Montreal is one hundred and twenty-five kilometers.