“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.