From Buffalo we went to Rochester, Utica, Syracuse, Albany, Troy, Worcester, Providence, Newark, making a short stay in Washington, an admirable city, but which at that time had a sadness about it that affected one’s nerves. It was the last large city I visited.
After two admirable performances and a supper at the Embassy we left for Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, where our tour was to come to a close. In that city I gave a grand matinée at the general demand of the artistes of New York. The piece chosen was the “Princesse Georges.”
Oh, what a fine and never-to-be-forgotten performance! Everything was applauded by the artistes. Nothing escaped the particular state of mind of that audience made up of actors and actresses, painters and sculptors. At the end of the play a gold hair comb was handed to me on which was engraved the names of a great number of persons present. From Salvini, I received a pretty casket of lapis, and from Mary Anderson, at that time in the striking beauty of her nineteen years, a small medal bearing a forget-me-not in turquoise. In my dressing-room I counted one hundred and thirty bouquets.
That evening we gave our last performance with “La Dame aux Camélias.” I had to return and bow to the public fourteen times.
Then I had a moment’s stupefaction, for in the tempest of cries and bravos, I heard a shrill cry shouted by thousands of mouths and which I did not in the least understand. After each recall I asked in the wings what the meaning of the word was that struck on my ears like a dreadful sneeze, beginning again time after time. Jarrett appeared and enlightened me. “They are calling for a speech.” I looked at him abashed.... “Yes, they want you to make them a little speech.” “Ah, no!” I exclaimed, as I again went on to the stage to make a bow. “No.” And in making my bow to the public I murmured: “I cannot speak. But I can tell you, thank you, with all my heart!” It was in the midst of a thunder of applause, underscored with “Hip! hip! hurrah! Vive la France!” that I left the theater.
On Wednesday, the 4th of May, I embarked on the same transatlantic steamer, L’Amérique, the phantom vessel to which my journey had brought good luck. But it had no longer the same commander. The new one’s name was Santelli. He was as little and fair complexioned as the other was big and dark. But he was as charming and a nice conversationalist.
My cabin had been newly fitted up, and this time the woodwork had been covered in sky-blue material. On going on the steamer I turned toward the friendly crowd and threw them a last adieu. “Au revoir,” they shouted back.
I then went toward my cabin. Standing at the door in an elegant iron-gray suit, wearing pointed shoes, hat in the latest style, and wearing dogskin gloves, stood Henry Smith, the showman of whales. I gave a cry like that of a wild beast. He kept his joyful smile and held out a jewel casket which I took with the object of throwing it into the sea through the open porthole. But Jarrett caught hold of my arm and took possession of the casket which he opened. “It is magnificent!” he exclaimed, but I had closed my eyes. I stopped up my ears and cried out to the man: “Go away! you knave! you brute! go away. I hope you will die under atrocious suffering! Go away!”
I half opened my eyes. He had gone. Jarrett wanted to talk to me about the present. I would not hear anything about it.
“Ah, for God’s sake, Mr. Jarrett, leave me alone! Since this jewel is so fine, give it to your daughter and do not speak to me about it any more.” And this was done.