My sisters came rushing to me and seized my hands. I danced round with them singing, “It is to-morrow, it’s to-morrow.” My youngest sister was eight years old, but I was only six that day. I went upstairs to the flat on the top floor to tell Mme. Guérard. She was just soaping her children’s white frocks and pinafores. She took my face in her hands and kissed me affectionately. Her two hands were covered with a soapy lather and left a snowy patch on each side of my head. I rushed downstairs again in that condition, and went noisily into the drawing-room. My godfather, M. Meydieu, my aunt, and my mother were just commencing whist. I kissed each of them, leaving a little lather on their faces, at which I laughed heartily. But I was allowed to do anything that day, for I had become a personage. The next day, Tuesday, I was to go to the Théâtre Français at one o’clock to see M. Thierry, who was then director. What was I to wear? That was the great question. My mother had sent for the milliner, who had arrived with various hats. I chose a white one trimmed with pale blue, a white _bavolet_ and blue strings. Aunt Rosine had sent one of her dresses for me, for my mother thought all my frocks were too childish. Oh, that dress! I shall see it all my life. It was hideous cabbage green with black velvet put on in Grecian pattern. I looked like a monkey in that dress. But I was obliged to wear it. Fortunately it was covered by a mantle of black grosgrain stitched all round with white. It was thought better for me to be dressed like a grown-up person, and all my clothes were suitable only for a child. Mlle. De Brabender gave me a pair of white gloves, and Mme. Guérard a sunshade. My mother gave me a very pretty turquoise ring. Dressed up in this way, looking pretty in my white hat, uncomfortable in my green dress, but comforted by my mantle, I went with Mme. Guérard to M. Thierry’s. My aunt lent me her carriage for the occasion, as she thought it would look better to arrive in a private carriage. Later on I found that this arrival in my own carriage, with a footman, made a very bad impression. What all the theater people thought, I never cared to consider, and it seems to me that my extreme youth must really have preserved me from all suspicion. [Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT WHEN SHE LEFT THE CONSERVATORY.] M. Thierry received me very kindly and made a little nonsensical speech. He then unfolded a paper, which he handed to Mme. Guérard, asking her to look at it and then to sign it. This paper was my engagement, and my _petite dame_ explained that she was not my mother. “Ah!” said M. Thierry, getting up, “then will you take it with you and have it signed by mademoiselle’s mother?”