There was frantic applause, encore after encore following each scene. Then the curtain fell on the final scene, only to be followed by a great uproar. Then the audience went out slowly, as if regretting to leave the surroundings. While I went away a golden voice--_the_ golden voice--seemed still to resound in my ears, uttering words which I could not understand: “Je t’aime! je t’aime!” They were like the notes of a crystal bell resounding in my consciousness. Who would have thought at that time that the poor little Western girl would one day come to Paris, would appear there on a stage, in her turn before an audience trembling with enthusiasm, and that Sarah Bernhardt would be in the house for the purpose of applauding this little Western girl, just as the little Western girl had applauded her to-day? * * * * * I was dancing at the Folies-Bergère. At a matinee some one came to say that Sarah Bernhardt was in a box with her little daughter. Did I dream? My idol was there. And to see me! Could this be possible? I came on to the stage and looked over the audience, which was filling the hall above and below. Standing quietly, in my great white robe, I waited for the end of the applause. I danced and, although she could not know it, I danced for her. I forgot everything else. I lived again through the famous day in New York, and I seemed to see her once more, marvellous as she was at the matinee. And now here was a matinee to which she had come for the purpose of seeing me--_my_ idol, to see _me_. [Illustration: THE DANCE OF THE LILY _Photo_ _Lafitte_] I finished. She rose in her box, she leaned forward toward me to applaud--and to applaud again. The curtain rose several times. My brain was in a whirl. Was this real? Was it? Was it she? It was my turn to become the audience and, as I saw only her, _her_ audience. And that is how she played to my profound, my perfect gratification, the part of the whole house. * * * * * One day a friend took me to Sarah Bernhardt’s house. It was a real visit, but it seemed to me nevertheless like a dream. I was scarcely able to speak or to breathe. I could hardly presume to look at her. I was in the presence of my divinity. Later she invited me to have lunch with her, as a result of my begging her to be photographed by one of the best photographers of San Francisco, who had crossed the ocean expressly to take Sarah Bernhardt in her wonderful studio. She had consented. I had taken my compatriot to her, and she had posed for him very graciously. He was so pleased with his good luck, so grateful, the dear fellow! Sarah had asked me to come and lunch with her on the day when he was to show her the proofs. Exactly at noon I made my entrance. Very shortly after she appeared in the great studio, took me in her arms and imprinted a kiss on each of my cheeks. All that was so simple, so natural and yet so extraordinary.