Prince Napoleon, commonly known as “Plon-Plon,” often used to come to George Sand’s rehearsals. He was extremely fond of her. The first time I ever saw that man I turned pale, and felt as though my heart had stopped beating. He looked so much like Napoleon I. Mme. Sand introduced me to him in spite of my wishes. He looked at me in an impertinent way, and I did not like him. I scarcely replied to his compliments, and went closer to George Sand. [Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT IN “FRANÇOIS LE CHAMPI.”] “Why, she is in love with you!” he exclaimed, laughing. George Sand stroked my cheek gently. “She is my little Madonna,” she answered, “do not torment her.” I stayed with her, casting displeased and furtive glances at the prince. Gradually, though, I began to enjoy listening to him, for his conversation was brilliant, serious, and at the same time witty. He sprinkled his discourses and his replies with words that were a trifle crude, but all that he said was interesting and instructive. He was not very indulgent, though, and I have heard him say base, horrible things about little Thiers which I believe had little truth in them. He drew such an amusing portrait one day of that agreeable Louis Bouilhet, that George Sand, who liked him, could not help laughing, although she called the prince a bad man. He was very unceremonious, too, but at the same time he did not like people to be wanting in respect to him. One day an _artiste_ named Paul Deshayes, who was playing in “François le Champi,” came into the _artistes’ foyer_. Prince Napoleon was there, Mme. George Sand, the curator of the library, whose name I have forgotten, and I. This _artiste_ was common and something of an anarchist. He bowed to Mme. Sand and, addressing the prince, said: “You are sitting on my gloves, sir.” The prince scarcely moved, pulled the gloves out and, throwing them on the floor, remarked: “I thought this seat was clean.” The actor colored, picked up the gloves, and went away murmuring some revolutionary threat. I played the part of _Hortense_ in “Le Testament de César Girôdot,” and of _Anna Danby_ in Alexandre Dumas’ “Kean.” On the evening of the first performance of the latter piece the public was very disagreeable. Dumas’ _père_ was quite out of favor, on account of a private matter that had nothing to do with art. Politics, for some time past, had been exciting everyone, and the return of Victor Hugo from exile was very much desired. When Dumas entered his box, he was greeted by yells. The students were there in full force, and they began shouting for _Ruy Blas_. Dumas rose and asked to be allowed to speak. “My young friends ...” he began, as soon as there was silence. “We are quite willing to listen,” called out some one, “but you must be alone in your box.”