Breathless, dazed, and yet delighted by my success, I did not know to whom to reply in the ever-changing stream of male and female admirers. Then, suddenly, I saw the crowd separating and forming two lines, and I caught a glimpse of Victor Hugo and Girardin coming towards me. In a second all the stupid ideas I had had about this immense genius flashed across me. I remembered my first interview, when I had been stiff and barely polite to this kind, indulgent man. At that moment, when all my life was opening its wings, I should have liked to cry out to him my repentance and to tell him of my devout gratitude. Before I could speak, though, he was down on his knee, and raising my two hands to his lips, he murmured, “Thank you! Thank you!” And so it was he who said “Thank you.” He, the great Victor Hugo, whose soul was so beautiful, whose universal genius filled the world! He, whose generous hands flung pardons like gems to all his insulters. Ah, how small I felt, how ashamed, and yet how happy! He then rose, shook the hands that were held out to him, finding for every one the right word. He was so handsome that night, with his broad forehead, which seemed to retain the light, his thick, silvery fleece of hair, and his laughing luminous eyes. Not daring to fling myself in Victor Hugo’s arms, I fell into Girardin’s, the sure friend of my first steps, and I burst into tears. He took me aside in my dressing-room. “You must not let yourself be intoxicated with this great success now,” he said. “There must be no more risky jumps, now that you are crowned with laurels. You will have to be more yielding, more docile, more sociable.” “I feel that I shall never be yielding nor docile, my friend,” I answered looking at him, “I will try to be more sociable, but that is all I can promise. As to my crown, I assure you that in spite of my risky jumps, and I feel that I shall always be making some, the crown will not shake off.” Paul Meurice, who had come up to us, overheard this conversation, and reminded me of it on the evening of the first performance of _Angelo_ at the Sarah Bernhardt Theatre, on February 7, 1905. On returning home, I sat up a long time talking to Madame Guérard, and when she wanted to go I begged her to stay longer. I had become so rich in hopes for the future that I was afraid of thieves. _Mon petit Dame_ stayed on with me, and we talked till daybreak. At seven o’clock we took a cab and I drove my dear friend home, and then continued driving for another hour. I had already achieved a fair number of successes: _Le Passant_, _Le Drame de la Rue de la Paix_, Anna Danby in _Kean_, and _Jean-Marie_, but I felt that the _Ruy Blas_ success was greater than any of the others, and that this time I had become some one to be criticised, but not to be overlooked. I often went in the morning to Victor Hugo’s, and he was always very charming and kind. [Illustration: