The next day in London the chief topic of conversation was the Bedlam that had been let loose at 77 Chester Square. So much was made of it that our _doyen_, M. Got, came to beg me not to make such a scandal, as it reflected on the Comédie Française. I listened to him in silence, and when he had finished I took his hands. “Come with me and I will show you the scandal,” I said. I led the way into the garden, followed by my visitor and friends. “Let the cheetah out!” I said, standing on the steps like a captain ordering his men to take in a reef. When the cheetah was free the same mad scene occurred again as on the previous day. “You see, Monsieur le Doyen,” I said, “this is my Bedlam.” “You are mad,” he said, kissing me; “but it certainly is irresistibly comic,” and he laughed until the tears came when he saw all the heads appearing above the garden wall. The hostilities continued, though, through scraps of gossip retailed by one person to another and from one set to another. The French Press took it up, and so did the English Press. In spite of my happy disposition and my contempt for ill-natured tales, I began to feel irritated. Injustice has always roused me to revolt, and injustice was certainly having its fling. I could not do a thing that was not watched and blamed. One day I was complaining of this to Madeleine Brohan, whom I loved dearly. That adorable artiste took my face in her hands, and looking into my eyes, said: [Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT _From the portrait by Mlle. Louise Abbema_ ]