“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——”