As I had a continual thirst for what was new, I now tried my hand at painting. I knew how to draw a little and had a well-developed sense of color. I first did two or three small pictures—then I undertook the portrait of my dear Guérard. Alfred Stevens thought it was vigorously done, and Georges Clairin encouraged me to continue with painting. Then I launched out courageously, boldly. I began a picture which was nearly two meters in size: “The Young Girl and Death.” Then there was a cry of indignation against me. Why did I want to do anything else but act, since that was my career? Why did I always want to be before the public? Perrin came to see me one day when I was very ill. He began to preach. “You are killing yourself, my dear child,” he said. “Why do you go in for sculpture, painting, etc.? Is it to prove that you can do it?” “Oh, no, no,” I answered; “it is merely to create a necessity for staying here!” “I don’t understand,” said Perrin, listening very attentively. “This is how it is. I have a wild desire to travel, to see something else, to breathe another air, and to see skies that are higher than ours and trees that are bigger; something different, in short. I have therefore had to create for myself some tasks which will hold me to my chains. If I did not do this, I feel that my desire to see other things in the world would win the day and I should do something foolish.” This conversation was destined to go against me some years later when the Comédie brought an action against me. The Exhibition of 1878 put the finishing stroke to the state of exasperation that Perrin and some of the _artistes_ of the theater were in with regard to me. They blamed me for everything, for my painting, my sculpture, and my health. I had a terrible scene with Perrin and it was the last one, for from that time forth we did not speak to each other again; a formal bow was the most that we exchanged afterwards. The climax was reached over my balloon ascension. I adored and I still adore balloons. Every day I went up in M. Giffard’s captive balloon. This persistency had struck the _savant_ and he asked a mutual friend to introduce him. “Oh, M. Giffard,” I said, “how I should like to go up in a balloon that is not captive!” “Well, mademoiselle, you shall do so if you like,” he replied very kindly. “When?” I asked. “Any day you like.”