I had fancied, and up to this performance of _Zaïre_ I had always heard, and read in the papers that my voice was pretty, but weak; that my gestures were gracious, but vague; that my supple movements lacked authority, and that my glance lost in heavenward contemplation, could not tame the lion (the public). I thought then of all that. I had received proof that I could count on my physical strength, for I had commenced the performance of _Zaïre_ in such a state of weakness that it was easy to predict that I should not finish the first act without fainting. On the other hand, although the rôle was easy, it required two or three shrieks which might have provoked the vomiting of blood which frequently troubled me at that time. That evening, therefore, I acquired the certainty that I could count on the strength of my vocal cords, for I had uttered my shrieks with real rage and suffering, hoping to break something in my wild desire to be revenged on Perrin. Thus, this little comedy turned to my profit. Not being able to die at will, I faced about and resolved to be strong, vivacious, and active, to the great annoyance of some of my contemporaries, who had put up with me only because they thought I would soon die, but who began to hate me as soon as they acquired the conviction that I should perhaps live for a long time. I will give only one example, related by Alexandre Dumas, _fils_, who was present at the death of his intimate friend, Charles Narrey, and heard his dying words: “I am content to die because I shall hear no more of Sarah Bernhardt and of the great Français” (Ferdinand de Lesseps). CHAPTER XVIII A HOLIDAY AND NEW SUCCESSES But this revelation of my strength rendered more painful to me the sort of idleness to which Perrin condemned me. In fact, after _Zaïre_, I remained months without anything of importance—playing here and there. Then, discouraged and disgusted with the theater, I renewed my passion for sculpture. After my ride I took a light repast and then fled to my studio where I remained till the evening. Friends came to see me, sat around me, played the piano, sang, warmly discussed politics—for in this modest studio I received the most illustrious men of all parties. Several ladies came to take tea, which was abominable and badly served; but I did not care about that. I was absorbed by that admirable art. I saw nothing, or to speak more truly. I _would not_ see anything. At this time I was making the bust of an adorable young girl, Mlle. Emmy de X——. Her slow and measured conversation had an infinite charm. She was a foreigner but spoke French so perfectly that I was stupefied. She smoked a cigarette all the time and had a profound disdain for those who did not understand her.