The next day I sent in my written resignation to M. Perrin, and shortly afterwards I was sent for by M. Turquet, Minister of Fine Arts. I refused to go, and they sent a mutual friend, who stated that M. Perrin had gone further than he had any right, that the fine was remitted, and that I must take back my resignation. So I did. But the situation was strained. My fame had become annoying for my enemies, and a little trying, I confess, for my friends. But at this time all this stir and noise amused me vastly. I did nothing to attract attention; but my fantastic tastes, my paleness and thinness, my particular way of dressing, my scorn of fashion, my general freedom in all respects, made me a being set apart. I did not recognize this fact. I did not read—I never read—the newspapers. So I did not know what was said about me, either favorable or unfavorable. Surrounded by a court of adorers of both sexes, I lived in a sunny dream. All the royal personages and the notabilities who were the guests of France during the Exhibition of 1878 came to see me. This was a constant source of pleasure to me. The Comédie was the first theatrical stage of all these illustrious visitors, and Croizette and I played nearly every evening. While I was playing _Amphytrion_ I fell seriously ill, and was sent to the South. I remained there two months. I lived at Mentone, but I made Cap Martin my headquarters. I had a tent put up on the spot that the Empress Eugénie afterwards selected to build her villa. I did not want to see anybody, and I thought that by living in a tent, so far from the town, I should not be troubled with visitors. This was a mistake. One day when I was having lunch with my little boy, I heard the bells of two horses which had come with a carriage. The road overhung my tent, which was half hidden by the bushes. Suddenly a voice which I knew, but could not recognize, cried in the emphatic tone of a herald: “Does Sarah Bernhardt, Associate of the Comédie Française, live here?” We did not move. The question was asked again. Again the answer was silence. But we heard the sound of breaking branches, the bushes were pushed apart, and at two yards from the tent the teasing voice recommenced. We were discovered. Somewhat annoyed I came out. I saw before me a man with a large tussore cloak on, a field glass strapped on his shoulders, a gray bowler hat, and a red, happy face with a little pointed beard. I glanced at this commonplace-looking individual with anything but favor. He lifted his hat: “Mme. Sarah Bernhardt is here?” “What do you want with me, sir?” “Here is my card, madame.” I read: “Gambard, Nice, Villa des Palmiers.” I looked at him with astonishment, and he was still more astonished to see that his name did not produce any impression on me. He had a foreign accent. “Well, you see, madame, I come to ask you to sell us your group, ‘After the Tempest.’” I began to laugh.