The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  I went still. I should return to the flat, but I didn’t want to run and bring attention to myself. I was scarcely a prize in my current state, but I’d heard bloodcurdling tales of violations taking place as the city succumbed to anarchy. A shell strike would be quick, maybe painless. Rape at the hands of a pair of desperate soldiers would not.

  Then I saw the soldiers were as weak as me, staggering under a mishmash of clothing to ward off the cold, without visible weapons. Their pained gait and the palpable despair in their faces transfixed me. I stayed immobile as they neared, for they appeared aimless, as though they had no idea where they were heading, like those soldiers I’d seen in the Place, which now seemed a lifetime ago.

  In a voice gone hoarse from the cold, I heard myself say, “Is it over?”

  I didn’t know why I asked. There was nothing to indicate it, but something about their slumped shoulders, their pathetic clinging to each other, compelled me to it. One of them glanced at me with red-rimmed eyes, as if he’d been weeping. “Yes,” he said. “An armistice was signed at Versailles. We were ordered to disarm, mademoiselle.”

  “Armistice? Not unconditional surrender?” It hardly mattered, providing this ordeal came to an end, but it mattered very much to me in that moment. If we’d negotiated terms for our surrender, at least we could retain some shred of our dignity.

  The soldier gave a joyless nod; as they continued onward, perhaps toward homes they’d not seen in months, I burst into tears. Right there on the street, with a blade in my pocket. I wept for myself, for France, and for everything we had lost.

  * * *

  —

  “It’s over!” Bursting into the flat, I startled Caroline, her hands laden with bags of urine-sodden paper from the kitchen. Madame G. must have heard me depart, for she was at the table, setting out cutlery for our nonexistent breakfast. My dogs, roused by my fervor, bestirred themselves to yelp piteously from their perch on my mother’s settee.

  “The siege,” I explained, seeing ma petite dame’s confusion. “I just came across two Republican soldiers who told me an armistice was signed at Versailles.”

  “Blessed be.” Madame G. dropped onto a chair. “We can eat again.”

  “And not elephant or cat.” I swooped to my pets to hug their skinny heads. “I must find Kératry and ask him to help me send word to Holland.” Unraveling my layers, my relief that the siege had finally ended stoking welcome heat in my shallow flesh, I scavenged in Julie’s little desk. “Is there any paper or ink left? The telegraph lines are shut down. I hardly think I can hire one of those balloons they used for reconnaissance to send a message—”

  I paused, as much at the sudden silence when there should have been rejoicing as at the disquieting sensation of something being withheld. Turning to the table, where Caroline stood as if petrified with the dripping bag, I looked at Madame G.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “They’re not in Holland.” She was too fatigued to mince her words. “Didn’t you read the note Kératry sent you when he closed the ward?”

  I stared at her. “No. Should I have?”

  She sighed. “Sarah, he also sent word of your family.”

  I plunged into my bedchamber, digging through my heaped clothes for my Red Cross smock. I found it stiff with caked blood under my tattered stockings and undergarments, as laundering was impossible. From the front pocket, I extracted that deceptive slip of paper Duquesnel had handed me. I could barely read the minuscule writing, though it was precise: like everything else about him, Kératry’s penmanship was excellent.

  I collapsed to my knees. When my howl erupted, Madame G. rushed in to stand over me in helpless despair.

  “Bad Homburg,” I cried. “They’re in Germany.”

  XI

  “Sarah, it’s out of the question. Have you failed to consider the consequences of such an endeavor, just as you apparently fail to understand the situation our entire country finds itself in?” Kératry regarded me over his paper-strewn desk in the Tuileries; within the palace itself, little had changed except for the pervasive cinder dust coating everything. Outside, however, Paris was in wreckage, every tree cut down for fuel, with corpses festering under the rubble on the streets, and shell-ravaged buildings prone to collapsing without warning, so that voluntary crews were already tearing down every structure that couldn’t be salvaged.

  “We have peace now, don’t we?” I insisted, having traversed the ruined city in a hired equipage, in my least soiled dress and bonnet, determined to make an impression. “The Prussians are retreating and—”

  “Retreating?” He gave a terse laugh. Though he wore an elegant tailored suit—no imperial uniform now, for we had no empire—he looked underweight and haggard. “They’re still roaming the countryside, plundering as they please. The armistice is a farce. Our Third Republic gave in to every one of Wilhelm’s demands, allowing him to proclaim himself the Kaiser at our palace of Versailles. He’s the new German emperor, and that devil Bismarck is his lackey, demanding Alsace-Lorraine in exchange for releasing Louis-Napoléon into exile. What we lost Prussia reaps. We’ve surrendered our standing and our honor.”

  I’d never thought I’d see him, a scion of aristocratic privilege, moved to such despairing patriotism. Lowering my gaze to my hands in my lap, I shifted them to hide the missing buttons on one of my gloves and the threadbare fingertips.

  “You did send me the message,” I reminded him.

  “I sent it so you could know your family is safe, not to incite you to this madness.”

  “Safe?” I lifted my eyes, my voice sharpening. “In enemy territory?”

  “In a spa at Bad Homburg. They are free to return here whenever they like. Bismarck isn’t refusing our citizens abroad safe passage, but considering the situation, it would be best for them to remain wherever they are until safe passage is assured.”

  “He’s my son.” I couldn’t maintain my calm or stay true to my avowal that we must never speak of Maurice. “She—she took him there without my permission. I would never have allowed it. A spa in Germany, while we were under siege…it’s beyond belief.”

  “Be that as it may, it’s also beyond belief that a woman alone should undertake such a journey. You would be risking your own safety, perhaps your very life.”

  “Then I will risk it.” I came to my feet. “With or without safe passage. I survived the siege. I can survive a trip to Bad Homburg. And I won’t be alone; my maid will accompany me.”

  He met my stare for a moment, laden with everything unspoken between us. Then he sighed. “I have this entire city to oversee. I won’t fight one woman. Do as you will.” He took up a pen and wrote on a paper, stamping it with his insignia. “A pass. If you can book a seat on one of the provision trains, this might allow you to cross the border. The Prussians are controlling every entry and departure, so a pass signed by a former officer of a disgraced former empire is only that. If they refuse, do not say you weren’t warned.”

  “I consider myself warned.” I pocketed the paper. As I turned toward the door, he said, “Wait,” and I heard him open a drawer. When I looked around, he was extending a pistol to me. “If you don’t know how to shoot it, just point and hope for the best.”

  I retrieved the pistol. “I know how to shoot,” I said. Even if I did not.

  * * *

  I couldn’t decide what was worse. The supply train crammed with refugees who stank of fear and unwashed skin, the sated Prussian soldiers, drunk on victory and our vintage wines, halting the train at intervals to board and loot—though they leeringly referred to their wholesale ransacking as “inspections”—the lack of food or potable water, or Caroline’s insufferable litany of prayer.

  “Will you please stop invoking God?” I hissed, once we finally arrived in the town of Homburg after a harrowing twelve days, which had involved every kind of transport from the sup
ply train to a goatherd’s trap to walking for hours over unpaved roads. My feet throbbed in my tissue-thin boots; my clothing was stained and my hair an unsightly mess. I glared at her, trudging like a penitent beside me, as we neared the immaculate vision of marble pantheons looming before us like a mirage, surrounding by healing waters.

  “Who else can save us but Him,” she moaned, “now that we’re in the enemy’s maw?”

  “Maw indeed.” I flung out my arm. “Do you see any wolves here? Look about you. Parasols on the terrace. Waiters with tea service. Why, it’s like Vichy. Only,” I snarled, recalling my aborted attempt at a holiday before I’d been plunged into this nightmare, “they speak German here. They’re also Protestants, so unless you want to be burned alive as a papist, I suggest you put away that rosary and refrain from invoking the saints.”

  Caroline recoiled and said nothing more, though I could tell she was terrified of what lay ahead—and it wasn’t the Prussians that she most feared.

  It took me a half hour of haggling with the reception staff, most of whom pretended to not understand me although they must have acquired some French as a matter of course, considering this spa was, or had been, as frequented by French society as by Prussian. Finally, the manager on duty took it upon himself to answer my irate demands by requesting another possible name, as he had no Bernhardt listed in the register.

  “Youle van Hard,” I spat out at him. “My son is Bernhardt. Maurice Bernhardt.”

  “I see.” He sniffed. It hadn’t occurred to me in my impatience that of course Julie traveled under her own name. And Bernhardt, as the manager’s sniff implied, reeked of Hebraic origin. Evidently, they didn’t serve Jews in the spa of Bad Homburg.

  “We do have a Mademoiselle Julie Youle van Hard registered—” the manager started to say.

  “Where?” I cut him off.

  He gave me a pointed look. “Given the hour, I assume she and her family are about to partake of luncheon in our dining room. Would Mademoiselle care to register for a room? Only our registered guests are allowed into the dining area.”

  I clenched my jaw, feeling the pistol in my bag poking my ribs as I filled out the form. I had brought whatever money I’d managed to scavenge from my apartment, hiding it in the lining of my bag, but I didn’t know if it would be enough or if French currency would even be accepted. I didn’t care. Let them arrest me for my unpaid bill, if they chose.

  “I’ll have you know I’m a celebrated actress in France,” I informed the manager, who accepted my deposit of francs readily enough.

  “Then your visit is an honor for us,” he said dryly, handing me the key to my room. “Will Mademoiselle Bernhardt require any assistance with her luggage?”

  “Mademoiselle’s maid will.” I thrust my tapestry bag at Caroline. “Go to the room,” I told her. “And draw me a hot bath. This won’t take long.”

  I marched into the gallery, past guests idling on wicker chaises and sipping tea as if just across the border our country weren’t struggling to evade the Prussian heel. I heard plenty of French spoken as I stormed past; apparently, Julie wasn’t the only one who lacked any conscience or pride. But when I entered the gilded salon, with its linen-draped tables and cultivated air of refinement, a violin quartet playing Bach, and observed the guests feasting on cooked ham, shellfish, and fresh fruit, my stomach lurched and my mouth, bone-dry from the road, flooded with saliva.

  Food. Actual edible sustenance. As a waiter drifted by, bearing a platter of langoustines and oysters on ice, I nearly pounced on him. Instead, I scoured the room in mounting rage until I caught sight of them by the bay windows overlooking a rose garden.

  When I saw Maurice, my knees started to buckle underneath me.

  Weaving my way through the tables to them, I went unseen, until Régine looked up with her habitual scowl, a preposterous bow atop her head, and cried, “Ma soeur!”

  Julie turned in her chair, a napkin at her lips. She froze as I reared before her.

  “How could you?” I passed my furious gaze over her, in her white day gown and straw bonnet adorned with satin cherries, her coiffure a confection of ringlets, then I stabbed my gaze at Rosine, who went white. Régine threw herself from her chair at me. Clutching my sister to my side, I beckoned Maurice, who rose uncertainly from his seat beside ashen-faced Jeanne.

  “Mon fils,” I said. “Come give your poor maman a kiss.”

  How could he have grown so much in so little time? He’d just turned six—I had missed his December birthday because of his absence—but this solemn, handsome child with his long legs and thick auburn hair brilliantined to his scalp, enhancing his deep-set, amber-hued eyes, appeared much older to me. My heart cracked in my chest when I saw him hesitate, as if he didn’t know who I was.

  “Go.” Rosine gave him a nudge. “She’s Sarah. Your mother.”

  Tears choked me as his eyes lit up in recognition. I enveloped him with my other arm, falling to my knees as everyone stared and Régine bayed her joy. I breathed in his scent, my precious boy, and through my overwhelming relief that he was well, unharmed, and with me once more, I lifted my eyes to Julie.

  “Poor maman, indeed,” she said. “All the way from Paris, no less—and looking as if she crawled here on her hands and knees.”

  * * *

  —

  Over lunch, Julie protested she saw no reason for haste, even as I took Maurice by his hand and marched him up to my room, Régine scampering beside us. I reveled in a hot bath, spent the afternoon with my son and sister in the garden, ate dinner at a separate table, with Julie avoiding a single glance at me from hers, then went back upstairs to squash myself between Maurice and Régine on the bed, with Caroline on a truckle beside us.

  The next morning, I packed up my belongings. When Julie and Rosine came upon us in the lobby as I was returning my room key and settling my bill—I barely had enough to cover it—Julie exclaimed, “Are you leaving already? Honestly, Sarah, this is ridiculous. Paris is no place for any civilized person to be right now.”

  She was right. I knew I was being reckless and unreasonable. Given the situation, Paris was indeed the last place I should willingly take my son and sister, but the very thought of letting them remain here, in Prussian territory, hardened my resolve. France might be in chaos, yet it was still our country and it was where we must be. Moreover, I certainly would not stay here myself nor let my son be influenced any further by my mother’s wiles.

  “We will make do,” I retorted. “You may stay as long as you like.”

  Rosine bleated, “Jeanne isn’t fully recovered yet; we only came here so she could take the cure, as you suggested.”

  “In Vichy. I suggested she take the cure in Vichy.” I kept my eyes on Julie, who said coldly, “We might have been recognized in Vichy; our suitors take their families there on occasion. Besides, with all the tiresome talk of war, I thought it wiser to go on holiday outside of France. We’ve come here often enough in the past. It’s a perfectly respectable resort. There was no harm—”

  “No harm? Does your respectable resort have no newspapers?” I snarled.

  I hired a cab to take us to the center of town. After repeated inquiries, I discovered passenger trains were departing to Paris on a sporadic schedule. Of course, Julie refused to stay behind, arriving with Jeanne, Rosine, and their mass of luggage at the station where we waited to board the train, declaring she’d been so humiliated by my precipitous arrival and departure she couldn’t possibly remain in Bad Homburg.

  On the train, which would only take us to a gare outside Paris, requiring us to hire another conveyance to the city, Julie lamented the entire way. “Like peasants,” she said, casting accusatory looks at me as if I’d planned the war to inconvenience her. “When we were perfectly comfortable at the resort.”

  I refused to say another word to her. By the time we reached Paris after an interminab
le train ride that took nearly three days, and hired a carriage at considerable expense that she had to pay, seeing as I had no more money, she was seething with fury in her dainty silk shoes and askew bonnet.

  Once we entered her flat, she went cold. Madame G. had taken my dogs to my apartment and done her best to tidy up, but the evidence of our occupation was clear. I smiled to myself as I saw Julie pause in her boudoir and sniff at the lingering smell of chicken before she said flatly, “I’m quite sure penning animals in my house as if it were a barnyard gave you much pleasure.”

  She had seen the city as we’d been driven through it, the disaster of it, piles of demolished buildings and rubble-strewn boulevards, people searching for food and fuel; but to her, the most egregious act of the calamity was my uninvited invasion of her home.

  “For the moment,” I said. I left her there, with her luggage about her, Jeanne faint with exhaustion, and Rosine distraught at the upheaval. I returned to my apartment with Caroline, Régine, and Maurice, where my dogs were overjoyed, leaping up to slather the children with affection. As I heard my son laugh aloud for the first time since we’d departed Bad Homburg, I realized that, like Paris itself, we had to rebuild. I must get back to the business of living if I was to support my family.

  But my joy at being reunited with my boy and sister, and my satisfaction that I’d taught Julie a much-needed lesson in the process, turned out to be short-lived.

  XII

  “Must they burn down Paris all over again?” I stood upon a wooded hill in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, clutching the reins of my mare as I stared toward the city, from which emanated plumes of smoke and the scattershot echo of cannon fire. “After we only just survived the Prussians by the skin of our teeth, how can they turn on each other like this? It’s appalling.”