Oh, that matinée of Saturday, December 4th! I can never forget it! When I got to the theater to dress it was midday, for the matinée was to commence at half past one. My carriage stopped, not being able to get along, for the street was filled by ladies, sitting on chairs which they had borrowed from the neighboring shops, or on folding seats which they had brought themselves. The play was “La Dame aux Camélias.” I had to get out of my carriage and walk about twenty-five yards on foot in order to get to the stage door. It took me twenty-five minutes to do it. People shook my hands and begged me to come back. One lady took off her brooch and pinned it in my mantle—a modest brooch of amethysts surrounded by fine pearls, but certainly for the giver the brooch had its value. I was stopped at every step. One lady pulled out her notebook and begged me to write my name. The idea took like lightning. Small boys under the care of their parents wanted me to write my name on their cuffs. My arms were full of small bouquets which had been pushed into my hands. I felt behind me some one tugging at the feather in my hat. I turned round sharply. A woman with a pair of scissors in her hand had tried to cut off a lock of my hair, but she had only succeeded in cutting the feather out of my hat. In vain Jarrett signalled and shouted—I could not get along. They sent for the police, who delivered me, but without any ceremony, either for my admirers or for myself. They were real brutes, those policemen, and made me very angry. I played “La Dame aux Camélias” and I counted seventeen calls after the third act and twenty-nine after the fifth. In consequence of the cheering and calls the play had lasted an hour longer than usual and I was half dead with fatigue. I was just about to go to my carriage to get back to my hotel when Jarrett came to tell me that there were more than 50,000 people waiting outside. I fell back on a chair, tired and disheartened. “Oh, I will wait till the crowd has dispersed! I am tired out. I can do no more.” But Henry Abbey had an inspiration of genius. “Stay,” said he to my sister, “put on madame’s hat and boa and take my arm. And take also these bouquets—give me what you cannot carry. And now we will go to your sister’s carriage and make our bow.” He said all this in English and Jarrett translated it to my sister who lent herself to this little comedy very willingly. During this time Jarrett and I got into Abbey’s carriage, which was stationed in front of the theater where no one was waiting. And it was fortunate we took this course, for my sister only got back to the Albemarle Hotel an hour later, very tired, but very much amused. Her resemblance to myself, my hat, my boa, and the darkness of night had been the accomplices of the little comedy which we had offered to my enthusiastic public.