“Three petals of my roses have fallen,” I replied, “and there they all three are by the armchair on the prompt side, and you fell on the O. P. side. It isn’t my fault, therefore; it is just your own awkwardness.” The discussion continued and was rather heated on both sides. Two clans were formed, the “Croizettists,” and the “Bernhardtists,” war was declared, not between Sophie and me, but between our respective admirers and detractors. The rumor of these little quarrels spread in the world outside the theater and the public, too, began to form clans. Croizette had on her side all the bankers and all the people who were suffering from congestion. I had all the artists, the students, dying folks, and the failures. When once war was declared there was no drawing back from the strife. The first, the most fierce, and the definitive battle was fought over the moon. We had begun the full-dress rehearsals. In the third act the scene was laid in a forest glade. In the middle of the stage was a huge rock upon which was _Blanche_ (Croizette) kissing _Savigny_ (Delaunay), who was supposed to be my husband. I (_Berthe de Savigny_) had to arrive by a little bridge over a stream of water. The glade was bathed in moonlight. Croizette had just played her part and her kiss had been greeted with a burst of applause by the house. This was rather daring in those days for the Comédie Française. Suddenly a fresh burst of applause was heard. Amazement could be read on some faces, and Perrin stood up terrified. I was crossing the bridge, my pale face ravaged with grief, and the _sortie de bal_ which was intended to cover my shoulders was dragging along, just held by my limp fingers; my arms were hanging down as though despair had taken the use out of them. I was bathed in the white light of the moon and the effect, it seems, was striking and deeply impressive. A nasal, aggressive voice cried out: “One moon effect is enough. Turn it off for Mlle. Bernhardt.” I sprang forward to the front of the stage. “Excuse me, M. Perrin,” I exclaimed, “you had no right to take my moon away. The manuscript reads: ‘_Berthe advances, pale, convulsed with emotion, the rays of the moon falling on her_’... I am pale and I am convulsed ... I must have my moon!...” “It is impossible,” roared Perrin. “Mlle. Croizette’s ‘You love me, then!’ and her kiss must have this moonlight. She is playing the Sphinx, that is the chief part in the play and we must leave her the principal effect....” “Very well, then, give Croizette a brilliant moon, and give me a less brilliant one. I don’t mind that, but I must have my moon.” All the _artistes_ and all the employés of the theater put their heads in at all the doorways and openings both on the stage and in the house itself. The “Croizettists” and the “Bernhardtists” began to comment on the discussion. Octave Feuillet was appealed to, and got up in his turn.