Part 30 (1/2)

I was very glad to meet Colonel Picquard at a dinner in a Dreyfusard house. All that I had heard of him made me feel a great admiration for him. I was not disappointed. He is a most charming man, handsome, with such an honest and kind face. I hoped he would talk with me about Dreyfus, and said as much to my hostess, who in her turn must have said ”as much” to him, for he came and sat by me. I did not hesitate to broach the tabooed subject. He said: ”I do not and have never thought that Dreyfus was guilty. He may have done something else, but he never, in my belief, wrote the _bordereau_. I had not known him before. I was the officer who was sent to his cell to make him write his name; they forced him to write it a hundred times. He was perfectly calm, but it was so cold in his room that his fingers were stiff and his hands trembled. He kept saying, 'Why am I to do this?' I was convinced then and there of his innocence. I could have wept with compa.s.sion when I saw how unconscious the poor fellow was. I was also on duty,” he added, ”when Dreyfus was conducted to the Ecole Militaire the day he was degraded before the troops: his epaulettes were torn from his shoulders and his sword was broken in two. I never could have imagined that any one could endure so much. My heart bled for him.”

Dreyfus was imprisoned _two weeks_ and subjected every day to mysterious questionings, of which he could not divine the purpose.

Neither he nor his counsel knew on what grounds he was arrested.

Forzinetti, who was in charge of Dreyfus's prison, also believed him innocent, and said he had never seen a man suffer as he did. He kept repeating, ”My only crime is having been born a Jew.” He has been confined ever since on the _Ile du Diable_ under the strictest surveillance. His jailer was not allowed to speak to him. When airing himself in the little inclosure, exposed to the awful heat, there was always a gun pointed at him. Sometimes he was chained to his bed with irons, and a loaded pistol was always placed by his side in case he became weary of life. Colonel Picquard said:

”It can only be the strong desire to prove his innocence that keeps his courage up.” Colonel Schwartkopfen (the German military _attache_ in Paris) declares solemnly to any one who will listen that the German Emba.s.sy has never had anything to do with Dreyfus, and the _bordereau_ is unknown there.

We are very anxious about the news we get from Denmark. The dear Queen is very ill, and there is little hope of her recovery.

PARIS, _29th September_.

Dear ----,--The Queen died last night.

Every one in Paris has come to us to express his sympathy. As is the custom in Europe, people write their names in a book placed in the antechamber. There are several hundred signatures. In Denmark there is mourning ordered for six months. As there is no Danish church in Paris, a memorial service for the Queen was celebrated in the Greek chapel. It was most solemn and beautiful. I love to hear the mournful chants of the white-robed, solemn priests.

It was very sad to hear of the a.s.sa.s.sination of the beautiful Empress of Austria. She was in Geneva and about to take the little boat to go up the lake. The a.s.sa.s.sin met her and, apparently running against her accidentally, stabbed her. She did not feel the thrust and continued to walk on. When she stepped on the boat they noticed the blood on her dress, and soon after, on being taken to the hotel, she died.

The French military _attache_ in Copenhagen was in Paris some days and invited us to dinner at his mother's, who has a charming home. We met a great many agreeable people, among whom was the poet Rostand (he is the brother-in-law of the _attache_). Rostand was very talkative, and I enjoyed, more than words can tell, my conversation with him. He was most amusing when he told of his efforts ”to be alone with his thoughts.” He said that when he was writing _L'Aiglon_ he was almost crazy.

”My head seemed bursting with ideas. I could not sleep, and my days were one prolonged irritation, and I became so nervous _que j'etais devenu impossible_. The slightest interruption sent me into spasms of _delire_. Do you know what I did?” he asked me.

”I suppose,” I answered, ”you went on writing, all the same.”

”No. You could never guess,” he laughed. ”I sat in a bath-tub all day.

In this way no one could come and disturb me, and I was left alone.”

”Tubs,” I remarked, ”seem to belong to celebrities. Diogenes had one, I remember, where he sat and pondered.”

”But it was not a bath-tub. I consider my idea rather original! Do you not think that the Great Sarah is magnificent in '_L'Aiglon_'?”

”Magnificent,” I said. ”You are fortunate to have such an interpreter.”

”Am I not?” He was a delightful man.

He sent me a few lines of the Princess Lointaine, with his autograph.

At Mr. Dannat's, the well-known American portrait-painter, I met the celebrated composer Moskowski. One does not expect to find good looks and a pleasing talker and a _charmeur_ in a modern artist. But he combines all of these. He said:

”I shall die a most miserable and unhappy man.”

”Why?” I inquired. I feared he would confide in me the secrets of his heart, which is at present mostly occupied with his handsome and giddy wife. These, however, he kept wisely to himself.

”I am like Rubinstein,” he said. ”He was wretched because he could not write an opera. I also wish to write an opera, but I cannot.”

”Who could, if not you?” I said. ”I think your Concerto one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard.”

”You flatter me,” he said, modestly, ”but, alas! you cannot make me a writer of operas. To-morrow afternoon is the _repet.i.tion generale_ at the Cologne Concert of my Concerto. Teresa Careno plays the piano part. Would you allow me to accompany you, if you would like to go?”

Did I accept? Yes!