“Well, it’s settled!” exclaimed my godfather, shaking the snow from his hat. “Here, read that, you self-willed girl.”
He handed me a letter stamped with the words “Théâtre du Gymnase.” It was from Montigny, the manager at this theater, to M. De Gerbois, a friend of my godfather’s, whom I knew very well. The letter was very friendly, as far as M. De Gerbois was concerned, but it finished with the following words: “I will engage your protégée in order to be agreeable to you ... but she appears to me to have a vile temper.”
I blushed as I read these lines and I thought my godfather was wanting in tact, as he might have given me real delight and avoided wounding me in this way; but he was the clumsiest-minded man that ever lived. My mother seemed very much pleased, so that I kissed her pretty face, and thanked my godfather. Oh, how I loved kissing that pearly face, which was always so cool, and always slightly dewy! When I was a little child I used to ask her to play at butterfly on my cheeks with her long lashes, and she would put her face close to mine and open and shut her eyes, tickling my cheeks while I lay back breathless with delight.
The following day I went to the Gymnase. I was kept waiting for some little time, together with about fifty other girls. M. Monval, a cynical old man who was stage manager and almost general manager, then interviewed us. I liked him at first, because he was like M. Guérard, but I very soon disliked him. His way of looking at me, of speaking to me, and of taking stock of me generally, roused my ire at once. I answered his questions curtly and our conversation, which seemed likely to take an aggressive turn, was cut short by the arrival of M. Montigny, the manager.
“Which of you is Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt?” he asked.
I at once rose and he continued:
“Will you come into my office, mademoiselle?”
Montigny had been an actor, and was plump and good-humored. He appeared to be somewhat infatuated with his own personality, with his ego, but that did not matter to me. After some friendly conversation, he preached a little to me about my outburst at the Comédie and made me a great many promises about the rôles he should give me. He prepared my engagement and gave it to me to take home for my mother’s signature and that of my family.
“I am quite free,” I said to him, “so that my own signature is all that is required.”
“Oh, very good!” he said, “but what nonsense to give such a self-willed girl full liberty. Your parents did not do you a good turn by that.”