My trunk was at last strapped, Caroline’s valise fastened, and my little bag crammed full. I was quite ready to start, but the fingers of the clock had moved along by this time, and to my horror I discovered that it was eight o’clock. Marguerite would be going down from her bedroom at the top of the house to prepare my mother’s coffee, my chocolate, and bread and milk for my sisters. In a fit of despair and wild determination I kissed Mme. Guérard with such violence as almost to stifle her and rushed once more to my room to get my little Virgin Mary which went with me everywhere. I threw a hundred kisses to my mother’s room, and then, with wet eyes and a joyful heart went downstairs. My _petite dame_ had asked the man who polished the floors to take the trunk and valise down, and Caroline had fetched a cab. I went like a whirlwind past the _concierge’s_ door. She had her back turned toward me and was sweeping the floor. I sprang into the cab and the driver whipped up his horse. I was on my way to Spain. I had written an affectionate letter to my mother begging her to forgive me and not to be grieved. I had written a stupid letter of explanation to Montigny, the manager of the Gymnase Theater. The letter did not explain anything though. It was written by a child whose brain was certainly a little affected, and I finished up with these words: “Have pity on a poor, crazy girl.” Sardou told me later on that he happened to be in Montigny’s office when he received my letter. “I had been talking to Montigny for over an hour,” he said, “about a piece I was going to write. The conversation was very animated, and when the door was opened Montigny exclaimed in a fury: ‘I had given orders that I was not to be disturbed!’ He was somewhat appeased, however, on seeing old Monval’s troubled look and he knew there was some urgent matter. ‘Oh, what’s happened now?’ he asked, taking the letter that the old stage manager held out to him. On recognizing my paper, with its gray border, he said: ‘Oh, it’s from that mad child! Is she ill?’” “No,” said Monval, “she has gone to Spain.” “She can go to the deuce!” exclaimed Montigny. “Send for Mme. Dieudonnée to take her part. Bernhardt has a good memory, and half the rôle must be cut. That will settle it.” “Any trouble for to-night?” Sardou asked Montigny. “Oh, nothing,” he answered. “It is that little Sarah Bernhardt who has cleared off to Spain!” “That girl from the Français who boxed Nathalie’s ears?” “Yes.” “She’s rather amusing.” “Yes, but not for her managers,” remarked Montigny, continuing immediately afterwards the conversation which had been interrupted. This is exactly as Victorien Sardou related the incident. On arriving at Marseilles, Caroline went to get information about the journey. The result was that we embarked on an abominable trading boat, a dirty coaster smelling of oil and stale fish, a perfect horror.