“Well, I have thought of something for you. And if you like to make your return to Paris in a play of Victorien Sardou’s, I will sign with you at once for the Vaudeville.” “Ah!” I cried. “The Vaudeville! What are you thinking of? Raymond Deslandes is the manager and he hates me like poison because I ran away from the Gymnase the day following the first performance of his play: ‘Un Mari qui Lance sa Femme.’ His play was ridiculous, and I was even more ridiculous than his play in the part of a young Russian lady addicted to dancing and eating sandwiches. That man will never engage me!” He smiled. “My brother is the partner of Raymond Deslandes. My brother ... to put it plainly, is myself. All the money brought by us is mine! I am the sole master! What do you want to earn?” “But...? I really don’t know.” “Will fifteen hundred francs per performance suit you?” I looked at him in stupefaction, not quite sure if he was in his right mind. “But, monsieur, if I do not succeed you will lose money, and I cannot agree to that.” “Do not be afraid,” he said. “I can assure you it will be a success—a colossal success. Will you sign? And I will also guarantee you fifty performances!” “Oh, no, never! I will sign willingly, for I admire the talent of Victorien Sardou, but I do not want any guarantee. Success will depend on Victorien Sardou, and after him on me. So I sign and thank you for your confidence.” At my afternoon teas I showed the new contract to my friends, and they were all of opinion that luck was on my side in the matter of my resignation. Only three days remained to me in Paris. My heart was sore at the idea of leaving France, for many sorrowful reasons.... But in these memoirs I have put to one side all that touches the inner part of my life. There is one “I” which lives another life, and whose sensations, sorrows, joys, and griefs are born and die for a very small number of hearts. But I felt the need of another atmosphere, of vaster space, of other skies. I left my little boy with my uncle who had five boys of his own. His wife was a rigid Protestant, but kind, and my cousin Louise, their eldest daughter, was witty and highly intelligent. She promised me to be on the lookout and to let me know at once if there was anything I ought to know. [Illustration: BUST OF VICTORIEN SARDOU, BY SARAH BERNHARDT.]