The story became common property and Rothschild never spoke to her again. She remained friends with others of the same family, however, and there came a day when she was grateful for their help.
Sarah fitted up a magnificent studio near the Place de Clichy, in the avenue now chiefly distinguished for the number of night establishments which grace—or disgrace—it. It was a large, bare place, with immense windows, several step-ladders, and a divan covered with skins. For principal adornment it had a single, magnificent, white bear skin, which was the first present Sarah received from Georges Clairin, the painter and mural decorator—of whom more anon. He had been her admirer for years but it was not until 1879 that she yielded to his persistent pleadings and became really intimate with him.
The place was littered with scraps of plaster, old frames, cross-trees, brushes, supports, mallets, chisels and other paraphernalia of the sculptor and painter.
An old man who had once been an actor of repute, but who had been reduced to poverty and disgrace by morphine, was employed as a sort of general factotum. He would be an exemplary servant for a month or so, and then the drug passion would seize him and he would disappear for a week, during which the studio became littered with all kinds of refuse, from broken statues—which had been thrown violently to the floor by Sarah in fits of dissatisfaction, despondency or rage—to empty bottles of champagne and liqueurs, with which she was wont to entertain her guests.
About this time, if my memory serves me right, occurred the famous duel fought by Richard O’Monroy, the writer in La Vie Parisienne, and Edouard de Lagrenée, a distinguished young diplomat, whose infatuation for Sarah was like that of so many other men—terrific while it lasted, but of brief duration.
Sarah was in the habit of giving “soirées amusantes” in her atelier on nights when she was not billed to act at the Comédie.
These soirées consisted for the most part of conversation, recitals by poetic friends of the actress, gossip, and sometimes dancing. They were, in the word of Paris, “très à la mode.”
Sarah’s invitations were much sought after, but she never sent a formal one. It was understood that friends of hers were always welcome, and welcome also to bring any friends of their own. Thus Sophie Croizette—who, despite her rivalry with Sarah, had remained a friend outside of theatrical hours—appeared about nine o’clock one night, dragging by the hand a pale, anæmic-looking youngster, who appeared to be extremely bashful and intensely desirous of being elsewhere.
“See what I have caught!” cried Sophie, advancing into the atelier and dragging her young man after her. But the “catch” suddenly twisted his hand from hers and, without a word, turned tail and ran away. They rushed after him, to see his coat tails flying down the street fifty yards away.
“Who,” demanded Sarah, when she had finished laughing, “was that extraordinary person?”