“It was the second great disappointment of my life,” she said, when she related it to me years later. “I crept up to my bedroom and locked the door. Had there been any poison at hand I would have taken it. I was seized with a great desire to end my life. I thought of the Convent, of Mère Sainte-Sophie. Oh, if they had only let me become a nun, instead of entering this vast, unkind world of the theatre! I cried my eyes out and finally went to sleep.
“When I awoke, it was late at night. There was not a sound in the house. My fury had spent itself, and only a great despair remained. The thought that I would have to face my mother the next day seared my soul. How could I stand her sarcasm, that cutting phrase I knew so well: ‘Thou art so stupid, child!’
“I determined I would end it all for ever. I would die. I would creep out of the house while no one watched, run down to the quai and throw myself in the Seine....
“I approached the door, unlocked it, opened it cautiously. As I did so a piece of paper, that had been thrust into the jamb, fluttered to the ground. I took it nervously. It was a letter from Madame Guérard, my faithful old nurse. I retraced my steps into the room and held the letter to the candle as I incredulously read the message it contained:
“‘While you were asleep the Duc de Morny sent a note to your mother saying that Camille Doucet has confirmed that your engagement at the Comédie Française is arranged for....’
“My mood changed miraculously. I shouted with joy. I ran to the door, flung it open, ready to cry out my news to anyone who heard me. But the household slept. I went back to bed and cried myself to sleep for very happiness.”
The next day Sarah received a formal letter summoning her to the Comédie. The day following she was engaged, and signed her contract. Almost immediately she began rehearsing in the play Iphigénie.
About two months before her eighteenth birthday Sarah made her début at the Comédie, in a minor part. As a débutante from the Conservatoire, she was naturally fair prey for the critics. The greatest of these was Francisque Sarcey, who was credited with the power to make or break an actress. Managers hung on his verdicts.
This is what that powerful critic had to say about Sarah on the occasion of her début:
“Mlle. Bernhardt is tall and pretty and enunciates well, which is all that can be said for the moment.”