Sarah Bernhardt's Adventure.

Hastings Standard, Issue 466, 2 November 1897, Page 4

Sarah Bernhardt's Adventure.

The divine Bernhardt has had an adventure by the sad sea waves. The other day she was out walking on the cliffs at Belleisle-en-mer with friends when the whim took her to descend to the shore by the rocks instead of going round via the safer road. It vas a stiffish decline, not troublesome for a man, but presenting obvious difficulties to a middle-aged Parisienne with high-heeled boots. Sarah, however was not to be deterred by the prayers, remonstrances, or reproaches of her conpanions. Bubbling with threatrieal bravado she gambolled to the edge of the cliff and commenced to cautiously let herself down. The climb at first seemed easy. Presently, however, Sarah came to an awkward and distinctly dangerous corner, and, as bad luck would have it, looked below. Instantly the bravado disappeared. Mme. Bernhardt's pluck went with it. She could move neither up nor down, clung desperately to a wobbly rock, and emitted piercing squeals for help. The friends above, perceiving their beloved's parlous position, joined in the concert. Dismal howls rent the air and presently attracted the attention of M. Harancourt, a stout poet, who happened to be bathing in the sea underneath. He looked up and perceived the " greatest actress on earth " clinging by her eyelids to the side of a precipice. It was a situation of infinite possibilities ; and, regardless of the fact that bathing drawers are scarcely suitable or sufficient attire for cliff-climbing, he bounded out of the water and flew to his fair compatriot's assistance. In a few moments Harancourt stood by the Divine Sarah's side. Hardly, however, had he got there than the rock to which Madame Bernhardt was hanging gave way, struck the poet amidships and then diverted by a forcible push, cannoned down to the bottom. In another moment Sarah would have followed it. Harancourt, however, flung himself on his back and seized the tragedienne by her leather waistband. Fortunately it held, and the pair half-slithered, half-rolled down the descent together. Sarah reached the bottom in comparative safety, but Harancourt —!! Alas! poor poet. Over his abraded person we draw a decent veil. He had saved the pride of the French stage, but the cost in the shape of cuticle was considerable. Moreover, even poetical license will find it difficult to make a romantic ballad out of the episode.—Post Correspondent.