On the first evening she insisted on playing the second act of _Phèdre_ as an interlude. Just as her turn was coming, she was seized by one of those “blue funks” by which actors are sometimes liable to be paralyzed. She fell down in a state of collapse; her hands and feet became icy cold, and she had to be rubbed vigorously for ten minutes to put a little life into her. She was half carried on to the stage. As was only to be expected, she attacked her words badly, went on worse, and failed completely. The audience, however, noticed nothing, and applauded her frantically. She was “called,” and was enthusiastically cheered as she stood leaning on the arm of M. Mounet-Sully, without whose support she must have fallen, half dead as she was. But now things began to go wrong. _L’Etrangère_ had been announced for a Saturday _matinée_, and _Hernani_ for the evening. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt was in both pieces, but her parts were not very tiring ones. Like Doña Sol, Mrs. Clarkson has only one act calling for real exertion. Moreover, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt had not played at all since her appearance in _Zaïre_, and she had had time to rest. As a matter of fact--and this was the principal grievance of the Comédie against her--she did not rest. She had, for instance, performed _Le Passant_ and the second act of _Phèdre_ on the Friday night at a private house, before an aristocratic audience. When the time came for her to go to the theatre, she sent her maid to say that she was tired and could not perform. The effect may easily be imagined. Every seat was taken, the Saturday performances being always the best attended. It was feared that the public would take the announcement, which would have to be made, as a gross breach of politeness. How was it possible to organize another performance at such short notice? If only she had let them know in the morning! There was, however, no escape. Coquelin, whose turn it was to make the announcements for the week, went before the curtain. In a few well-chosen words he explained what had occurred, asked the audience to excuse the Comédie Française, and wound up by announcing that there would be no performance. A great commotion followed, and several hisses were heard--a very rare occurrence in a good English theatre. Chance brought an addition to the strength of the company in the shape of an actor who happened to call at the theatre for his letters. Some one pointed out that it would now be possible to play _Tartuffe_, and Coquelin was called upon to make another proclamation. But Coquelin was too disconcerted to do anything of the kind. “I should be a perfect weathercock,” he exclaimed. “I really can’t go on and say the exact opposite of what I said five minutes before. Let Got go!” Got was the _doyen_ and sage of the company, the last resource in desperate emergencies. He went forward and delivered a little speech to the effect that _Tartuffe_ would be performed for those who liked