Your kind references to the artiste induce me to write in defence of the woman. Those who persist in dinning me into the ears of the public are clever enemies of mine. It is excessively annoying not to be able to do anything without being accused of eccentricity. I love balloon ascents, but now I dare not indulge in them. I have never skinned dogs or burnt cats alive. My hair is not dyed, and my face has a sufficiently corpse-like pallor to absolve me from the suspicion of painting. I am told that my thinness is eccentric, but what am I to do? I should much prefer to be one of those happy people who are neither too fat nor too thin. My illnesses are said to attract too much attention, but they come without warning and strike me down wherever I may happen to be, and if people are there, so much the worse. I am reproached with trying to do everything: acting, sculpture, and painting; but these things amuse me, and bring me money to spend as best pleases me. Such are my crimes. You have taken my part, perhaps without intending to do so, but none the less I thank you heartily. As you applauded the artiste, I did not like to think that the woman might seem so unpleasant a contrast; and then it is such a pleasure to complain! Thanks for your kindness, Monsieur Millaud. SARAH BERNHARDT. [Illustration: Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in her travelling costume.] Some little time afterwards she published an account of her ballooning experiences in an amusing little book entitled, _In the Clouds_; _Impressions of a Chair_, with some very pretty illustrations by Clairin. The simple and unstudied gaiety of this book brought it into great favour. Of course she was accused of another attempt to advertise herself, and her literary efforts were riddled with epigrams, but she was beginning to be accustomed to this kind of thing. Several newspapers asked her to write for them. The _Globe_ requested her to supply the 1879 Salon critique, and another journal suggested that she should write an article on England, in which country she was about to perform. “How in the world,” exclaimed Albert Millaud, with mingled astonishment and alarm, “can such a frail creature, made up of poetry and grace, accomplish such labours?” On February 7, 1879, she played Monime in _Mithridate_ for the first time. The whole success of the performance fell to her. “If ever a part suited Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt,” said M. Sarcey, “Monime is that part.” “Had it been written expressly for her, it could not have fitted her better,” exclaimed M. Auguste Vitu. Even the unappeasable Paul de Saint-Victor had to give way. The _rôle_, he wrote, is within the scope of her talents, and is exactly adapted to her voice. She has all the required uniformity of tone and touching sweetness, relieved by one or two outbursts of offended dignity and quietly ironical smiles. She obtained well-merited applause.