Dumas protested vehemently. Several members of the orchestra took his side, for he had invited a woman into his box, and whoever that woman might be, no one had any right to insult her in so outrageous a manner. I had never yet witnessed a scene of this kind. I looked through the hole in the curtain, and was very much interested and excited. I saw our great Dumas, pale with anger, clenching his fists, shouting, swearing, and storming. Then suddenly there was a burst of applause. The woman had disappeared from the box. She had taken advantage of the moment when Dumas, leaning well over the front of the box, was answering: “No, no, this woman shall not leave the box!” Just at this moment she slipped away, and the whole house, delighted, shouted: “Bravo!” Dumas was then allowed to continue, but only for a few seconds. Cries of “_Ruy Blas!_ _Ruy Blas!_ Victor Hugo! Hugo!” could then be heard again in the midst of an uproar truly infernal. We had been ready to commence the play for an hour, and I was greatly excited. Chilly and Duquesnel then came to us on the stage. “Courage, _mes enfants_, for the house has gone mad,” they said. “We will commence, anyhow, let what will happen!” “I’m afraid I shall faint,” I said to Duquesnel. My hands were as cold as ice and my heart was beating wildly. “What am I to do,” I asked him, “if I get too frightened?” “There’s nothing to be done,” he replied. “Be frightened, but go on playing, and don’t faint upon any account!” The curtain was drawn up in the midst of a veritable tempest, bird cries, mewing of cats, and a heavy rhythmical refrain of “_Ruy Blas!_ _Ruy Blas!_ Victor Hugo! Victor Hugo!” My turn came. Berton _père_, who was playing _Kean_, had been received badly. I was wearing the eccentric costume of an Englishwoman in the year 1820. As soon as I appeared I heard a burst of laughter, and I stood still, rooted to the spot in the doorway. But the very same instant the cheers of my dear friends, the students, drowned the laughter of the disagreeable people. I took courage, and even felt a desire to fight. But it was not necessary, for after the second, endlessly long, harangue, in which I give an idea of my love for _Kean_, the house was delighted, and gave me an ovation. Ignotus wrote the following paragraph in the _Figaro_: “Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt appeared wearing an eccentric costume, which increased the tumult, but her rich voice—that astonishing voice of hers—appealed to the public, and she charmed them like a little Orpheus.”