being carried home I exclaimed furiously: “Yes, I would do it again, _quand-même_, if anyone dared me again. And I will always do what I want to do all my life.” In the evening of that day, my aunt, who was grieved to see me in such pain, asked me what would give me any pleasure. My poor little body was all bandaged, but I jumped with joy at this, and quite consoled I whispered in a coaxing way: “I should like to have some writing paper with a motto of my own.” My mother asked me rather slyly what my motto was. I did not answer for a minute, and then, as they were all waiting quietly, I uttered such a furious “_Quand-même_” that my Aunt Faure started back muttering, “What a terrible child!” Samson and Provost reminded me of this story in order to give me courage; but my ears were buzzing so that I could not listen to them. Provost heard my catchword on the stage and pushed me gently forward. I made my entry and hurried toward _Agamemnon_, my father. I did not want to leave him again, as I felt I must have some one to hold on to. I then rushed to my mother, _Clytemnestre_. I got through my part, and on leaving the stage I tore up to my room and began to undress. Mme. Guérard was terrified, and asked me if I was mad. I had only played in one scene and there were four more. I realized then that it would really be dangerous to give way to my nerves. I had recourse to my own motto, and, standing in front of the glass gazing into my own eyes, I ordered myself to be calm and to conquer myself, and my nerves, in a state of confusion, yielded to my brain. I got through the play, but was very insignificant in my part. The next morning my mother sent for me early. She had been looking at Sarcey’s article in _L’Opinion Nationale_, and she now read me the following lines.... “Mlle. Bernhardt, who made her début yesterday in the rôle of _Iphigénie_, is a tall, pretty girl with a slender figure and a very pleasing expression, the upper part of her face is remarkably beautiful. She holds herself well, and her enunciation is perfectly clear. This is all that can be said for her at present.” “The man is an idiot,” said my mother, drawing me to her. “You were charming.” She then prepared a little cup of coffee for me, and made it with cream. I was happy, but not completely so. When my godfather arrived in the afternoon, he exclaimed: “Good heavens! my poor child, what thin arms you have!” As a matter of fact, people had laughed, and I had heard them, when, stretching out my arms, I had said the famous lines in which Favart had made her famous “effect” that was now a tradition. I certainly had made no “effect,” unless the smiles caused by my long, thin arms can be reckoned such. My second appearance was in _Valérie_, when I did have some slight success. My third appearance at the Comédie resulted in the following effusion from the pen of the same Sarcey: [Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AT THE TIME OF HER DÉBUT IN “LES FEMMES SAVANTES.”]