“But,” said he, “we have not the right to try, in our affectionate selfishness, to hinder our young friend from doing all she can in the strife. She is of a combative nature.” “Ah yes!” I cried. “Yes, I am born for strife, I feel it. Nothing pleases me like having to master a public, perhaps hostile, who have read and heard all that the Press has said against me. But I am sorry that I cannot play, not only in Paris but in all France, my two big successes, _Adrienne_ and _Froufrou_.” “As to that, you can count on me!” exclaimed Félix Duquesnel. “My dear Sarah, you had your first successes with me, and it is with me that you will have your last....” Everybody protested, and I jumped up. “Wait one moment,” said he. “Last successes until you come back from America! If you will consent, you can count on me for everything. I will obtain, at any price, theatres in all the large towns, and we will give twenty-five performances during the month of September. As to financial arrangements, they will be of the simplest: twenty-five performances—fifty thousand francs. To-morrow I will give you one half of this sum, and sign a contract with you, so that you will not have time to change your mind.” I clapped my hands joyfully. All the friends who were there begged Duquesnel to send them, as soon as possible, an itinerary of the tour, for they all wanted to see me in the two plays in which I had gained laurels in England, Belgium, and Denmark. Duquesnel promised to send them the details of the tour, and it was settled that their visits should be drawn by lot from a little bag, and each town marked with the date and the name of the play. A week later Duquesnel, with whom I had signed a contract, returned with the tour mapped out and all the company engaged. It was almost miraculous. The performances were to commence on Saturday, September 4, and there were to be twenty-five of them; and the whole, including the day of departure and the day of return, was to last twenty-eight days, which caused this tour to be called “The twenty-eight days of Sarah Bernhardt,” like the twenty-eight days of a citizen who is obliged to accomplish his military service. The little tour was most successful, and I never enjoyed myself more than during this artistic promenade. Duquesnel organised excursions and _fêtes_ outside the towns. At first he had prepared, thinking to please me, some visits to the sights of the towns. He had written beforehand from Paris fixing dates and hours. The guardians of the different museums, art galleries, &c., had offered to point out to me the finest objects in their collections, and the mayors had prepared visits to the churches and celebrated buildings. When, on the eve of our departure, he showed us the heap of letters, each giving a most amiable affirmative, I shrieked.