The other evening she had a box at the theater, and asked me to go to hear Sarah Bernhardt in "Le fils Giboyer." Her son, the immaculate Bostonian, went with us. He is a duplicate of his mother's yellowness. I took Nina, who looked extremely pretty: she was beaming with excitement; her cheeks were flushed, and her curly, golden hair made a halo about her delicate features. Every one stared at her when we entered the box. During the second act I let her take my place in front, and, observe how virtue is rewarded! In the following _entr'acte_ the _ouvreuse_ came in suddenly without knocking (_ouvreuses_ never knock! that is one of their many privileges) and begged to _parler à_ Monsieur. Imagine the chaste George's feelings when he was told that the famous Sarah wished to speak with him, and, moreover, desired him to come behind the scenes to her dressing-room. What a situation! His red hair blushed to the very roots, and his yellow face became n sunset. However, one is or one is not a man. He proved himself to be one who could face danger when the time came. Trembling at the thought of Boston, the virtuous, hearing of it, he saw in his mind's eye the height the Puritan brows of his most distinguished family would reach when the news would be spread over the town, and a certain biblical scene passed before his mental vision. He gave his lemon-colored mustache a final fascinating twist, and, humming to himself "Hail, the conquering hero comes!" he buckled on his sword and went--all his colors flying. We waited breathlessly for his return, which was much sooner than we expected, and the smile he wore was not that of a conquering hero; it was another kind of a smile. Well, what do you think Madame Sarah wanted? Merely to know if the child in the box was his! His! His unmarried hair stood on end; he was so taken aback that he only had breath to mutter, "I am not married, Madame." Then in her most dramatic tones she demanded, "Who is the child, then?" He told her. "Where does this Madame Moulton live?" she asked. He told her that also. Then, with a dismissing wave of the hand, Sarah bade him farewell. It was all over. He had survived! Boston would never know. The next day I received a note from Sarah Bernhardt, asking me if I would allow her to make a bust of _la charmante petite fille_. I answered that I should be delighted. Then came another note telling me at what time _l'enfant_ should come for the first sitting. I took Nina to the studio, which was beyond the Boulevard de Courcelles in a courtyard. It was enchanting to watch the artist at work. She was dressed like a man: she wore white trousers and jacket, and a white _foulard_ tied artistically about her head. She had short and frizzly hair, and she showed us how she did it, gathering the four corners as if it were a handkerchief, with the ends sticking up on the top of her head. She smoked cigarettes all the time she was working.