We now come to the great artiste’s most recent creations. Her dramatic genius found fresh expression in Octave Mirabeau’s fine social problem play, _Les Mauvais Bergers_, brought out on the 15th December. After her appearance as a man in _Lorenzaccio_, and as a divinely inspired convert in _La Samaritaine_, here she was as one of the working-class, in a cotton blouse and woollen skirt. Next she gave Gabriel d’Annunzio’s _Ville Morte_, and, rejuvenated and transfigured after her severe illness, she produced _Lysiane_ by M. Romain Coolus in the spring of 1898. Immediately after her triumph in _Lorenzaccio_, a few of Sarah Bernhardt’s friends, headed by M. Henry Bauer, decided to organize a grand _fête_ in her honour, to mark the apogee of her artistic career. Wednesday, 9th December, 1896, was fixed as the date. Shortly before the great day, I had requested Sarah to give herself up to one or two hours’ solitude, to revive the memories of her emotions, struggles, and triumphs, and, in short, give the readers of the _Figaro_ a glimpse into her mind on the eve of one of the most memorable events of her brilliant career. She sent me the following spontaneous and vigorous account of her meditations-- _My dear friend, you are asking for nothing less than a full confession, but I have no hesitation in answering. I am proud and thoroughly happy at the prospect of the_ fête _that is to be given me. You ask me to say whether I really and truly believe I deserve this honour. If I say Yes, you will think me very conceited. If I say No, you will set me down as very blamable. I would rather tell you why I am so proud and happy. For twenty-nine years past I have given the public the vibrations of my soul, the pulsations of my heart, and the tears of my eyes. I have played one hundred and twelve parts. I have created thirty-eight new characters, sixteen of which are the work of poets. I have struggled like no other human being has struggled. My independence and hatred of deception have made me bitter enemies. I have overcome and pardoned those whom I condescended to encounter. They have become my friends. The mud thrown at me by others has fallen from me in dust, dried up by the scorching sun of my determination and faith in my own powers. I have ardently longed to climb the topmost pinnacle of my art. I have not yet reached it. By far the smaller part of my life remains for me to live, but what matters it! Every day brings me nearer to the realization of my dream. The hours that have flown away with my youth have left me my courage and cheerfulness, for my goal is unchanged, and I am marching towards it._