SARAH BERNHARDT. I was able to play, as I had recovered from my sore throat, but I had not studied my part during the three days, as I could not speak. I had not been able to try on my costumes, either, as I had been in bed all the time. On Friday I went to ask Perrin to put off the performance of “L’Aventurière” until the next week. He replied that it was impossible, that every seat was booked, and that the piece had to be played the following Tuesday for the subscription night. I let myself be persuaded to act, as I had confidence in my star. “Oh!” I said to myself, “I shall get through it all right.” I did not get through it, though, or rather I came through it very badly. My costume was a failure: it did not fit me. They had always jeered at me for my thinness and in this dress I looked like an English teapot. My voice was still rather hoarse, which very much disconcerted me. I played the first part of the rôle very badly and the second part rather better. At a certain moment during the scene of violence I was standing up, resting my two hands on the table on which there was a lighted candelabrum. There was a cry raised in the house, for my hair was very near to the flame. The following day one of the papers said that, as I felt things were all going wrong, I wanted to set my hair on fire so that the piece should come to an end before I failed completely. That was certainly the very climax of stupidity. The press did not praise me and the press was quite right. I had played badly, looked ugly, and been in a bad temper, but I considered that there was nevertheless a want of courtesy and indulgence toward me. Auguste Vitu, in the _Figaro_ of April 18, 1880, finished his article with the phrase: “The new _Clorinde_ (the _Adventuress_) in the last two acts made some gestures with her arms and movements of her body which one regrets to see taken from _Virginie_ of “L’Assommoir” and introduced at the Comédie Française.” The only fault which I never have had, which I never shall have, is vulgarity. That was an injustice and a determination to hurt my feelings. Vitu was no friend of mine, but I understood from this way of attacking me that petty hatreds were lifting up their rattlesnake heads. All the low-down little viper world was crawling about under my flowers and my laurels. I had known what was going on for a long time, and sometimes I had heard rattling behind the scenes. I wanted to have the enjoyment of hearing them all rattle together and so I threw my laurels and my flowers to the four winds of heaven. In the most abrupt way I broke the contract which bound me to the Comédie Française, and through that to Paris. I shut myself up all the morning, and after endless discussions with myself, I decided to send in my resignation to the Comédie. I therefore wrote to M. Perrin, this letter: TO THE DIRECTOR: