I heard a woman’s voice say: “Poor child, she ought not to have been allowed to compete; she has an atrocious cold, her nose is running, and her face is swollen.” I finished my scene, made my bow, and went away in the midst of very feeble and spiritless applause. I walked like a somnambulist, and on reaching Mme. Guérard and Mlle. De Brabender fainted away in their arms. Some one went to the hall in search of a doctor, and the rumor that “the little Bernhardt had fainted” reached my mother. She was sitting far back in a box bored to death. When I came to myself again, I opened my eyes and saw my mother’s pretty face, with tears hanging on her long lashes. I laid my head against hers and cried quietly, but this time the tears were refreshing, not salt ones that burned my eyelids. I stood up, shook out my dress, and looked at myself in the greenish mirror. I was certainly less ugly now, for my face was rested, my hair was once more soft and light, and altogether there was a general improvement in my appearance. The tragedy competition was over, and the prizes had been awarded. I had no recompense at all, but my last year’s second prize had been mentioned. I felt confused, but it did not cause me any disappointment, as I had quite expected things to be like this. Several persons had protested in my favor. Camille Doucet, who was a member of the jury, had argued a long time for me to have a first prize in spite of my bad recitation. He said that my examination reports ought to be taken into account, and they were excellent; and then, too, I had the best class reports. Nothing, however, could overcome the bad effect produced that day by my nasal voice, my swollen face, and my heavy flakes of hair. After half an hour’s interval, during which I drank a glass of port wine and ate cakes, the signal was given for the comedy competition. I was down as the fourteenth for this, so that I had ample time to recover. My fighting instinct now began to take possession of me, and a sense of injustice made me feel rebellious. I had not deserved my prize that day, but it seemed to me that I ought to have received it nevertheless. [Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT IN THE HANDS OF HER COIFFEUR.] I made up my mind that I would have the first prize for comedy, and with the exaggeration that I have always put into everything, I began to get excited, and I said to myself that if I did not have the first prize I must give up the idea of the stage as a career. My love of mysticism and weakness for the convent came back to me more strongly than ever. “Yes,” I said to myself, “I will go back to the convent, but only if I do not get the first prize”; and then the most foolish, illogical strike imaginable was waged in my weak, girl’s brain. I felt a genuine vocation for the convent when distressed about losing the prize, and a genuine vocation for the theater when I was hopeful about winning the prize.