letter by wire, as the consideration I have for public opinion gives me the right to commit this little folly, and I beg you, dear Monsieur Wolff, to accord to my letter the same honour as you did to the calumnies of my enemies.—With very kind regards, “Yours sincerely, “SARAH BERNHARDT.” This telegram caused much ink to flow. Whilst treating me as a spoiled child, people generally agreed that I was quite right. The Comédie was most amiable. Perrin, the manager, wrote me an affectionate letter begging me to give up my idea of leaving the company. The women were most friendly. Croizette came to see me, and putting her arms round me, said, “Tell me you won’t do such a thing, my dear, foolish child! You won’t really send in your resignation? In the first place; it would not be accepted, I can answer for that!” Mounet-Sully talked to me of art and of probity. His whole speech savoured of Protestantism. There are several Protestant pastors in his family, and this influenced him unconsciously. Delaunay, surnamed Father Candour, came solemnly to inform me of the bad impression my telegram had made. He told me that the Comédie Française was a Ministry; that there was the Minister, the secretary, the sub-chiefs and the _employés_, and that each one must conform to the rules and bring in his share either of talent or work, and so on and so on. I saw Coquelin at the theatre in the evening. He came to me with outstretched hands. “You know I can’t compliment you,” he said, “on your rash action, but with good luck we shall make you change your mind. When one has the good fortune and the honour of belonging to the Comédie Française, one must remain there until the end of one’s career.” Frédéric Febvre pointed out to me that I ought to stay with the Comédie, because it would save money for me, and I was quite incapable of doing that myself. “Believe me,” he said, “when we are with the Comédie we must not leave; it means our bread provided for us later on.” Got, our _doyen_, then approached me. “Do you know what you are doing in sending in your resignation?” he asked. “No,” I replied. “Deserting.” “You are mistaken,” I answered; “I am not deserting: I am changing barracks.” Others then came to me, and they all gave me advice tinged by their own personality: Mounet as a seer or believer; Delaunay prompted by his bureaucratic soul; Coquelin as a politician blaming another person’s ideas, but extolling them later on and putting them into practice for his own profit; Febvre, a lover of respectability; Got, as a selfish old growler understanding nothing but the orders of the powers that be and advancement as ordained on hierarchical lines. Worms said to me in his melancholy way: “Will they be better towards you elsewhere?”