With my sister I went in haste on to the bridge, and soon understood from the embarrassed circumlocutions of the amiable Santelli that we were too far off to hope to make the harbor that night.
I began to cry. I thought we should never arrive. I imagined that the Gnome was going to triumph and I wept those tears that were like a brook that runs on and on without ceasing.
The commander did what he could to bring me to a rational state of mind. I descended from the bridge with both body and soul like limpid rags.
I lay down on a straw deck chair and when dawn came was benumbed and sleepy. It was five in the morning. We were still twenty miles off land. The sun, however, began joyously to brighten up the small white clouds, light as snowflakes. The look of the loved one gave me courage again. I ran toward my cabin. I spent a long while over my toilet in order to kill time. At seven o’clock I made inquiries from the captain. “We are twelve miles off,” he said. “In two hours we shall land.” “You swear to it?” “Yes, I swear.” I returned on deck, where, leaning on the bulwark, I scanned the distance. A small steamer appeared on the horizon. I saw it without looking at it, expecting every minute to hear the cry “Over there! Over there!” All at once I noticed masses of small white flags being waved on the small steamer. I got hold of my glass ... and let it fall with a joyous cry that left me without any strength, without breath. I wanted to speak. I could not. My face, it appears, became so pale that it frightened the people who were about. My sister Jeanne wept as she waved her arms toward the distance. They wanted to make me sit down. I would not. Hanging on to the bulwarks, I smell the salts that are thrust under my nose. I allow friendly hands to wipe my temples, but I am gazing over there whence the vessel is coming. Over there lies my happiness! my joy! my life! my everything! dearer than everything!
The Diamond (the vessel’s name) comes near. A bridge of love is formed between the small and large ship, a bridge placed under the beatings of our hearts, under the weight of the kisses that have been kept back for how many days. Then comes the reaction that takes place in our tears when the young being that one worships is pressed to one’s bosom under the spell of an undefinable emotion.
The big ship is invaded. Everyone is there, my dear and faithful friends. They have accompanied my young son Maurice. Ah, what a delicious time! Answers get ahead of questions. Laughter is mingled with tears. Hands are pressed, lips are kissed, only to begin over again. One is never tired of this repetition of tender affection. During this time, our boat is moving. The Diamond has disappeared carrying away the mails. The farther we advance, the more small boats are met with, decked with flags, plowing the sea. There are a hundred at least. Here are others.
“Is it a public holiday?” I asked Georges Boyer, the correspondent of the Figaro, who with friends had come to meet me.
“Oh, yes, madame, a great fête day to-day at Hâvre, for they are expecting the return of a fairy who left seven months ago!”
“Is it really in my honor that all these pretty boats have spread their wings and beflagged their masts. Ah, how happy I am!” At this moment we go alongside the jetty. There are perhaps twenty thousand people there who cry out: “Vive Sarah Bernhardt!”
I am dumfounded. I do not expect any triumphant return. I am well aware that the performance given for the Life Saving Society has won the hearts of the people of Hâvre, but I learn that trains have come from Paris, packed with people, to welcome my return.