When once I was alone in my room between the sheets, with tired limbs, my head heavy and my heart oppressed with keeping back my sighs, I tried to consider my wretched situation, but sleep, the great restorer, came to the rescue and I was very soon slumbering peacefully. When I awoke I could not collect my thoughts at first. I wondered what time it was, and looked at my watch. It was just ten, and I had been asleep since three o’clock in the afternoon. I listened for a few minutes, but everything was silent in the house. On a table near my bed was a small tray on which was a cup of chocolate and a cake. A sheet of writing paper was placed upright against the cup. I trembled as I took it up, for I never received any letters. With great difficulty, by my night light, I managed to read the following words, written by Mme. Guérard: “When you had gone to sleep the Duc de Morny sent word to your mother that Camille Doucet had just assured him that you were to be engaged for the Comédie Française. Do not worry any more, therefore, my dear child, but have faith in the future. Your _petite dame_.” I pinched myself to make sure that I was really awake. I got up and rushed to the window. I looked out, and the sky was black. Yes, it was black to everyone else, but starry to me. The stars were shining, and I looked for my own special one, and chose the largest and brightest. I went back toward my bed and amused myself with jumping on to it, holding my feet together. Each time I missed I laughed like a lunatic. I then drank my chocolate, and nearly choked myself devouring my cake. Standing up on my bolster, I then made a long speech to the Virgin Mary at the head of my bed. I adored the Virgin Mary, and I explained to her my reasons for not being able to take the veil, in spite of my vocation. I tried to charm and persuade her, and I kissed her very gently on her foot, which was crushing the serpent. Then in the obscurity of the room I looked for my mother’s portrait. I could scarcely see this, but I threw kisses to it. I then took up the letter again from my _petite dame_ and went to sleep with it in my mind. I do not remember what my dreams were that memorable night. The next day everyone was very kind to me. My godfather, who arrived early, nodded his head in a contented way. “She must have some fresh air,” he said. “I will pay for a landau.” The drive seemed to me delicious, for I could dream to my heart’s content, as my mother disliked talking when in a carriage. Two days later, our old servant, Marguerite, breathless with excitement, brought me a letter. On the corner of the envelope there was a wide stamp around which stood the magic words: “Comédie Française.” I glanced at my mother and she nodded, as a sign that I might open the letter, after blaming Marguerite for giving me a letter before obtaining her permission to do so. “It is for to-morrow, to-morrow!” I exclaimed. “I am to go there to-morrow, look—read it!”