Sarah communicated to Francisque Sarcey her desire to return to the ComÉdie FranÇaise. Not that she was unhappy at the OdÉon! On the contrary, she had been gloriously happy there and owed everything to the staff of that theatre. It was simply that in those days, unless one had become the great star of the ComÉdie FranÇaise, one was not the great star of France. It was the criterion by which a dramatic career succeeded or failed—a sort of Royal Academy of the stage. And Sarah’s engagement at the ComÉdie as a star would be a double triumph, since it would mean that those who disliked her and were embittered against her by personal quarrels had been forced to engage her because her genius would not let them do otherwise.

It was not an unheard-of thing for an actress to be taken from another theatre to the ComÉdie and starred; but it was rare. Generally, the stars of the ComÉdie were sociÉtaires—actresses who had entered the institution as apprentices, and had remained there throughout their careers. It is so even now. For an actress to be invited from another theatre meant a signal honour and a public acknowledgment that she was pre-eminent in her art.

It is likely that Sarcey did not have to use much persuasion with the directors of the ComÉdie. His influence was unlimited there, and the mere fact that the great Sarcey had changed his opinion of Sarah—even though a majority of Paris suspected the cause—was enough to stamp her with the precious hall-mark of genius.

But Sarah had enemies enough in the House of MoliÈre. Maubant the tragedian, for one, had sworn that she should enter the theatre only over his dead body! Madame Nathalie was still there, together with her group of powerful friends. She had not forgotten the time that Sarah had slapped her face, nor would she ever forget it. The mere rumour that Sarah was to be invited back to the ComÉdie would send this group into transports of rage.

After Le Passant, Sarah’s salary at the OdÉon had been increased to four hundred francs a month, and following her triumph in Ruy Blas she was given a further increase of two hundred francs, making six hundred in all. This salary, about six pounds a week, was considered excellent in those days—and it was not bad, even considering the somewhat depreciated buying-power of money in Paris due to the war and the Commune.

But it was not nearly sufficient for Sarah, who lived in lavish style in her new apartment in the Boulevard Malesherbes. There she had a suite of nine large rooms, all of them exquisitely furnished, and she maintained a staff of five servants. She had two coaches—one for ordinary driving to and from the theatre, and the other for special occasions, such as Sunday mornings in the Champs ElysÉes and the Bois, when all fashionable Paris turned out in their smartest equipages to stare and be stared at.

She was constantly buying things and as constantly signing I.O.U.’s and traites (a species of acknowledgment of debt which authorises its collection by a bank). She never knew to a certainty how much money she owed, and was constantly surrounded by a horde of creditors eager to collect.

Among these creditors was a Jew, one FranÇois Cohen, a dealer in furniture and one of the most astute business men in Paris. He was not only a good business man; he was an extraordinary judge of dramatic talent, and in fact edited a column of dramatic comment for Le Monde et La Ville, a monthly sheet distinguished for its accurate information. He did this, of course, merely as a recreation.

Sarah’s attention was first attracted to him by the number of Le Monde et La Ville issued after her first performance in FranÇois CoppÉe’s Le Passant—the charity performance, I mean, before the play became a definite part of the OdÉon rÉpertoire. In his column Cohen had written:

“It is worth while to report the discovery, on Sunday night, of a new celestial body in the firmament of drama. We have found a poet, you will say; yes, but that is the least of it. CoppÉe is a master—a master in swaddling clothes—but even he, with his intricate verse, of which one understands only the beauty without comprehending the sense, would have been lost but for the outstanding magnificence of the most promising young actress on the stage in Paris. I am speaking of Mlle. Bernhardt.

“Who is she? I have asked, and nobody seems to know. There are stories of royal favour, of noble blood, of powerful protection; let us trust that they are untrue, for Mlle. Bernhardt must have the incentive to work which only the necessity to live can give her. But that she is something new in the heavens is, as I have said, undoubted.

“The question only remains: Will she be a comet, like so many others, flashing for but a brief instant in our bewildered and astonished consciousness, or will she develop into a new astronomical marvel, a brilliant seventh of the OdÉon Constellation, destined to shine with increasing brilliance, to dazzle us with her art and to warm us with her voice, until she becomes a fixed sun in the celestial firmament of France?

“No one who saw her performance last night can doubt that the genius is there; it remains but to know whether she also possesses the great gift of ambition and the necessary determination to work which alone can make her success a permanent thing. It is, perhaps, fortunate that she is not too beautiful....”

It was the most keenly analytical criticism that had appeared—I have quoted only a small part of the article—and, despite Sarah’s distaste for the last sentence, she realised that the author of the commentary knew what he was talking about. This was shown by his skilful delineation of the play. She carried the paper to Berton and asked:

“Who is ‘F.C.’ who signs this article?”

“I don’t know,” said Berton, “and nobody else does either. It seems to be a sort of secret. But he is clever.”

Sarah sent a note to the paper asking the editor to communicate with “F.C.” and ask him if he would call upon Sarah Bernhardt, who wished to thank him. She named a day and a time. At the appointed hour a call-boy came to her dressing-room with a card, on which was printed: “FranÇois Cohen.”

Ah! So this was “F.C.” Sarah’s eyes brightened in anticipation. She knew of a question that she meant to ask him.

The door opened and a little, round-shouldered man, with a hooked nose and beady, sparkling eyes came in. He was dressed in a suit of clothes two sizes too big for him; one of his shoes was unlaced and he kept his hat on.

Without preamble he advanced into the room with a short, mincing gait, trotted over to where Sarah sat regarding him with astonishment and suspicion, seized her hand, which he pecked at with his lips, and then thrust a large book on the table in front of her and began to turn over the pages.

“I understand that you are very busy, mademoiselle,” he said, with a strong accent, “and so I have brought the catalogue that is likely to interest you, and I think we can agree very quickly. The prices are marked, but perhaps——”

Finally Sarah Bernhardt found her voice.

“Who,” she demanded, struggling with mingled surprise and indignation, “are you?”

The little Jew looked up, astonished.

“Why,” he answered, “I am FranÇois Cohen! Did not they give you my card? I was told to come up——”

“B—but, I thought that you had come from a paper——”

Cohen’s little eyes sparkled. “I am FranÇois Cohen, and I sell very fine furniture,” he said.

“I do not want to buy furniture!” exclaimed Sarah testily. “I wanted to see a man who signs himself ‘F.C.’ in Le Monde et La Ville, and I thought, when I saw your card——” “You are sure you do not want to buy any furniture?”

“Of course I am sure!”

“Then, mademoiselle, we may talk of the other matter. I—I am also ‘F.C.’”

Sarah regarded him incredulously.

“You are ‘F.C.’ who writes the theatrical article in Le Monde et La Ville?” she demanded, with frank disbelief. “I don’t believe it! You are trying to lie to me, so that I will buy your furniture.”

“I will prove it to you, if you like.”

“How?”

“Well, you know what I said in my article—that you would one day be a great star if only you worked hard and had ambition?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ambition?” he asked her.

“Yes,” returned the actress, wonderingly. “I have—ambition.”

“Will you give me your promise to study and work hard?” the extraordinary little man then asked her.

“I mean to do that—yes!” replied Sarah.

“Then I will prove my faith in you by making this agreement: If you will buy from me the furniture that you need in furnishing your new flat” (her old one had been burned out a few nights before), “I will give you credit for six years!”

Sarah could not believe her ears.

“Credit for six years!” she cried. “But that is a long time!”

“Six years!” repeated the Jew impassively. “But why six? Why not ten—or two?”

“Because I believe that you will be famous within six years and will be well able to pay me,” he answered.

The deal was struck. Six years later Sarah Bernhardt’s name was the most celebrated in all Paris, and Cohen came to collect his bill—eleven thousand francs, including interest. It took all Sarah’s spare cash, and all she could borrow on her salary, but she paid him. It was the only debt I ever knew her to be scrupulous about.

Sarah was in bed one morning when Madame GuÉrard, who had become a sort of secretary to her, entered the bedroom with a letter in her hand and a mysterious look on her face. Closing the door behind her, she went silently to the bed, and stood looking at Sarah.

Then she handed her the letter. It was in a large, square envelope, and on the back of it was printed “ComÉdie FranÇaise.”

Sarah uttered a cry of exultation. It was her summons! She felt morally certain of it before the envelope was opened.

“Open it, Madame GuÉrard!” she cried, “and tell me what it says!”

The old lady carefully broke the seal, withdrew the letter, adjusted her spectacles and commenced to read:

“Monsieur Perrin, administrator of the ComÉdie FranÇaise, requests from Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt the honour of an appointment as soon as possible.”

Sarah jumped out of bed, seized the letter, and did a dance of triumph on the floor. “Tell him” she said breathlessly, “that I will go to see him to-day, at once——”

“It is Monday, and the offices are closed,” reminded Madame GuÉrard.

“That is so. I had forgotten. Well, tell him I will go to see him to-morrow afternoon.”

The next day she saw Perrin, who took her hands in his and said to her earnestly: “My child, I know that you are very much attached to the OdÉon, but your future belongs to France—and this is the National Theatre of France.”

“When Perrin said that,” Sarah related to me long afterwards, “I felt that my great moment had come. I was vindicated! My art had triumphed! I had compelled the ComÉdie FranÇaise, my enemies, to admit that I was the greatest artiste in Paris!”

She dictated harsh terms to Perrin, who promised to consider them. In two days came his reply: the administration had met and considered her case, and had instructed him to say that they would pay her an annual traitement of 12,000 francs.

With this letter in her hand she sought Duquesnel. That admirable man had long suspected that Sarah was eager to return to the ComÉdie.

But he only looked at her reproachfully and said: “Our little Sarah wishes to leave us? After all we have done for her? She does not love us any more!”

Sarah burst into a flood of tears, and flung herself into the director’s arms.

“It is not true! I do not want to leave you! I love you all! I would like to stay. But you see——” She could not explain that she felt her glory incomplete as long as she remained only the star of the OdÉon.

“Well?” prompted Duquesnel. “Let me say it for you—it is the money!”

Sarah gave a sigh of relief. She had been afraid he would divine her real reason. And, anyway, the money played no small part in her determination to return to the ComÉdie.

“Yes,” she admitted, “of course, it is the money. Perrin offers me twelve thousand francs a year. Give me fifteen thousand and I will remain here.”

The largest salary hitherto paid by the OdÉon to an artist was the 10,000 francs a year which had been earned by Mounet-Sully before he, too, was taken by the ComÉdie FranÇaise. Sarah and Duquesnel both knew that it was impossible that she should be given fifteen.

“I will talk to Chilly,” said he at last, “but I do not think he will agree.”

The next day Chilly sent for her. His manner was abrupt, rude. But Sarah understood the man by this time. She knew that his brusque manner was only his way of concealing emotion.

“So,” he said, “you want to leave us—idiot!”

“I do not want to leave,” answered Sarah, “but I am offered more money!”

“Your place is here! There is not a theatre in Paris which can offer you more than the OdÉon, except the ComÉdie, and of course you will never——”

Sarah tendered him the envelope she had received from Perrin, and Chilly started as he saw the inscription on the back.

“Ah!” he exclaimed.

Sarah waited.

“What do they offer?”

“Twelve thousand.”

“I will give you twelve——”

“No, you must give me fifteen.”

Chilly rose from his chair, red with anger. “So, mademoiselle, that is the way you treat your friends! Fifteen thousand francs! It is ridiculous—absurd.... Do you then take me for an imbecile?”

His attitude enraged Sarah.

“Yes,” she snapped, “I take you for just that—an imbecile!”

And she left the room, banging the door, leaving Chilly wearily staring after her.

Half an hour later she was back in his office. Advancing, she held out her arms to Chilly and embraced him.

“So,” he exclaimed joyfully. “You will stay?”

“No,” returned Sarah. “I am going! But I want to—to thank you....” And she burst into tears again.

Sarah signed her contract with the ComÉdie FranÇaise the same day. A week later Victor Hugo gave a banquet to celebrate the 100th performance of Ruy Blas.

It was in many ways a notable dinner. Not only did it commemorate the triumph of his greatest play, but it was Sarah’s farewell to the company at the OdÉon, her adieu to the stage on which she had achieved renown. And it was the last supper of Chilly, the director who had helped to mould her fame. He died of heart failure at the table, at the very moment when he was about to reply to the toast of his health.