“Father was not very polite, but it is because he is jealous. He wanted my sister to be at the Théâtre Français.” I was rather disturbed by this confidence, and I had a vague idea of the painful drama which was acting so differently on the various members of this humble home. On September 1, 1862, the day I was to make my début, I was in the Rue Duphot looking at the theatrical posters. They used to be put up then just at the corner of the Rue Duphot and the Rue St. Honoré. On the poster of the Comédie Française I read the words: “Début of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt.”... I have no idea how long I stood there, fascinated by the letters of my name, but I remember that it seemed to me as though every person who stopped to read the poster looked at me afterwards, and I blushed to the very roots of my hair. At five o’clock I went to the theater. I had a dressing-room on the top floor which I shared with Mlle. Coblance. This room was on the other side of the Rue de Richelieu, in a house rented by the Comédie Française. A small covered bridge over the street served as a passage and means of communication for us to reach the theater. I was a tremendously long time dressing, and did not know whether I looked nice or not. My _petite dame_ thought I was too pale, and Mlle. De Brabender considered that I had too much color. My mother was to go direct to her seat in the theater, and Aunt Rosine was away in the country. When we were told that the play was about to commence I broke out into a cold perspiration from head to foot, and felt ready to faint away. I went downstairs trembling, tottering, and my teeth chattering. When I arrived on the stage the curtain was being raised. That curtain, which was raised so slowly and solemnly, was, to me, like the veil being torn which was to let me have a glimpse of my future. A deep, gentle voice made me turn round. It was Provost, my first professor, who had come to encourage me. I greeted him warmly, so glad was I to see him again. Samson was there, too; I believe that he was playing that night in one of Molière’s comedies. The two men were very different. Provost was tall, his silvery hair was blown about, and he had a droll face. Samson was small, precise, dainty, his shiny white hair curled firmly and closely round his head. Both men had been moved by the same sentiment of protection for the poor, fragile, nervous girl, who was, nevertheless, so full of hope. Both of them knew my zeal for work, my obstinate will, which was always struggling for the victory over my physical weakness. They knew that my device “_Quand-même_” had not been adopted by me merely by chance, but that it was the outcome of a deliberate exercise of will power on my part. My mother had told them how I had chosen this device at the age of nine, after a formidable jump over a ditch which no one could jump, and which my young cousin had dared me to attempt. I had hurt my face, broken my wrist, and was in pain all over. While I was