“You miserable creature!” I called out to the fat woman, and, as she turned round to reply, I slapped her in the face. She proceeded to faint; there was a great tumult, and an uproar of indignation, approval, stifled laughter, satisfied revenge, pity from those _artistes_ who were mothers, for the poor child, etc. Two groups were formed, one around the wretched Nathalie, who was still in her swoon, and the other around little Régina. And the different aspect of these two groups was rather strange. Around Nathalie were cold, solemn-looking men and women fanning the fat, helpless lump with their handkerchiefs or fans. A young, but severe-looking _Sociétaire_ was sprinkling her with drops of water. Nathalie, on feeling this, roused up suddenly, put her hands over her face and muttered in a far-away voice: “How stupid! You’ll spoil my make-up!” The younger men were stooping over Régina, washing her pretty face, and the child was saying in her broken voice: “I did not do it on purpose, sister, I am certain I didn’t. She’s an old cow, and she just kicked for nothing at all!” Régina was a fair-haired seraph who might have made the angels envious, for she had the most ideal and poetical beauty—but her language was by no means choice, and nothing in the world could change it. Her coarse speech made the friendly group burst out laughing, while all the members of the enemy’s camp shrugged their shoulders. Bressant, who was the most charming of the comedians and a general favorite, came up to me and said: “We must arrange this little matter, mademoiselle, for Nathalie’s short arms are really very long. Between ourselves you were a trifle hasty, but I like that, and then that child is so droll and pretty,” he added, looking at my little sister. The house was stamping with impatience, for this little scene had caused twenty minutes’ delay, and we were obliged to go on to the stage at once. Marie Roger kissed me, saying: “You are a plucky little comrade!” Rose Baretta drew me to her, murmuring: “How dared you do it! She is a _Sociétaire_!” As for me, I was not very clear about what I had done, but my instinct warned me that I should pay dearly for it. The following day I received a letter from the manager asking me to call at the Comédie at one o’clock about a matter concerning me privately. I had been crying all night long, more through nervous excitement than from remorse, and I was more particularly annoyed at the idea of the attacks I should have to endure from my own family. I did not let my mother see the letter, for from the day that I had entered the Comédie she had given me full liberty. I received my letters now direct, without her supervision, and I went about alone.