“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 a cry from over there, over there....
All at once I noticed masses of little white flags being waved on the small steamer. I got my glasses—and then let them 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 me. My sister Jeanne wept as she waved her arms towards 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 the large ship, a bridge formed of the beatings of our hearts, under the weight of the kisses that have been kept back for so many days. Then comes the reaction that takes place in our tears, when the small boats, coming up to the large vessel, allow the impatient ones to climb up the rope ladders and throw themselves into outstretched arms.
The America is invaded. Every one 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 ship is moving. The Diamond has disappeared, carrying away the mails. The farther we advance, the more small boats we meet; they are decked with flags, ploughing the sea. There are a hundred of them. And more are coming....
“Is it a public holiday?” I asked Georges Boyer, the correspondent of the Figaro, who with some 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 honour that all these pretty boats have spread their wings and be-flagged their masts? Ah, how happy I am!” We are now alongside the jetty. There are perhaps twenty thousand people there, who cry out, “Vive Sarah Bernhardt!”