In answer to the toast proposed by Victor Hugo thanking every one for such zealous help on the revival of his work, each person raised his glass and looked towards the poet, but the illustrious master turned towards me and continued, “As to you, Madame——” Just at this moment Paul de St. Victor put his glass down so violently on the table that it broke. There was an instant of stupor, and then I leaned across the table and held my glass out towards Paul de St. Victor. [Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AT A FANCY-DRESS BALL BY WALTER SPINDLER ] “Take mine, Monsieur,” I said, “and then when you drink you will know what my thoughts are in reply to yours, which you have just expressed so clearly!” The horrid man took my glass, but with what a look! Victor Hugo finished his speech in the midst of applause and cheers. Duquesnel then leaned back and spoke to me quietly. He asked me to tell Chilly to reply to Victor Hugo. I did as requested. But he gazed at me with a glassy look, and in a far-away voice replied: “Some one is holding my legs.” I looked at him more attentively, whilst Duquesnel asked for silence for M. de Chilly’s speech. I saw that his fingers were grasping a fork desperately; the tips of his fingers were white, the rest of the hand was violet. I took his hand, and it was icy cold; the other was hanging down inert under the table. There was silence, and all eyes turned towards Chilly. “Get up,” I said, seized with terror. He made a movement, and his head suddenly fell forward with his face on his plate. There was a muffled uproar, and the few women present surrounded the poor man. Stupid, commonplace, indifferent things were uttered in the same way that one mutters familiar prayers. His son was sent for, and then two of the waiters came and carried the body away, living but inert, and placed it in a small drawing-room. Duquesnel stayed with him, begging me, however, to go back to the poet’s guests. I returned to the room where the supper had taken place. Groups had been formed, and when I was seen entering I was asked if he was still as ill. “The doctor has just arrived, and he cannot yet say,” I replied. “It is indigestion,” said Lafontaine (Ruy Blas), tossing off a glass of liqueur brandy. “It is cerebral anæmia,” pronounced Talien (Don Guritan), clumsily, for he was always losing his memory. Victor Hugo approached and said very simply: “It is a beautiful kind of death.” He then took my arm and led me away to the other end of the room, trying to chase my thoughts away by gallant and poetical whispers. Some little time passed with this gloom weighing on us, and then Duquesnel appeared. He was pale, but appeared as if nothing serious was the matter. He was ready to answer all questions. Oh yes; he had just been taken home. It would be nothing, it appeared. He only needed rest for a couple of days. Probably his feet had been cold during the meal.