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The Idol of Paris by Sarah Bernhardt

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In the dining-room of a fine house on the Boulevard Raspail all the
Darbois family were gathered together about the round table, on which
a white oil cloth bordered with gold-medallioned portraits of the line
of French kings served as table cover at family meals.

The Darbois family consisted of François Darbois, professor of
philosophy, a scholar of eminence and distinction; of Madame Darbois,
his wife, a charming gentle little creature, without any pretentions;
of Philippe Renaud, brother of Madame Darbois, an honest and able
business man; of his son, Maurice Renaud, twenty-two and a painter, a
fine youth filled with confidence because of the success he had just
achieved at the last Salon; of a distant cousin, the family
counsellor, a tyrannical landlord and self-centered bachelor, Adhemar
Meydieux, and the child of whom he was godfather, and around whom all
this particular little world revolved.

Esperance Darbois, the only daughter of the philosopher, was fifteen
years old. She was long and slim without being angular. The flower
head that crowned this slender stem was exquisitely fair, with the
fairness of a little child, soft pale-gold, fair. Her face had,
indeed, no strictly sculptural beauty; her long flax-coloured eyes
were not large, her nose had no special character; only her sensitive
and clear-cut nostrils gave the pretty face its suggestion of ancient
lineage. Her mouth was a little large, and her full red lips opened on
singularly white teeth as even as almonds; while a low Grecian
forehead and a neck graceful in every curve gave Esperance a total
effect of aristocratic distinction that was beyond dispute. Her low
vibrant voice produced an impression that was almost physical on those
who heard it. Quite without intention, she introduced into every word
she spoke several inflections which made her manner of pronounciation
peculiarly her own.

Esperance was kneeling on a chair, leaning upon her arms on the table.
Her blue dress, cut like a blouse, was held in at the waist by a
narrow girdle knotted loosely. Although the child was arguing
vigorously, with intense animation, there was such grace in her
gestures, such charming vibrations in her voice, that it was
impossible to resent her combative attitude.

"Papa, my dear papa," she was asserting to François Darbois, "You are
saying to-day just the opposite of what you were saying the other day
to mother at dinner."

Her father raised his head. Her mother, on the contrary, dropped hers
a little. "Pray Heaven," she was saying to herself, "that François
does not get angry with her!"

The godfather moved his chair forward; Philippe Renaud laughed;
Maurice looked at his cousin with amazement.

"What are you saying?" asked François Darbois.

Esperance gazed at him tenderly. "You remember my godfather was dining
with us and there had been a lot of talk; my godfather was against
allowing any liberty to women, and he maintained that children have no
right to choose their own careers, but must, without reasoning, give
way to their parents, who alone are to decide their fates."

Adhemar wished to take the floor and cleared his throat in
preparation, but François Darbois, evidently a little nonplused,
muttered, "And then after that--what are you coming to?"

"To what you answered, papa."

Her father looked at her a little anxiously, but she met his glance
calmly and continued: "You said to my godfather, 'My dear Meydieux,
you are absolutely mistaken. It is the right and the duty of everyone
to select and to construct his future for himself.'"

Darbois attempted to speak....

"You even told mama, who had never known it, that grandfather wanted
to place you in business, and that you rebelled."

"Ah! rebelled," murmured Darbois, with a slight shrug.

"Yes, rebelled. And you added, 'My father cut off my allowance for a
year, but I stuck to it; I tutored poor students who couldn't get
through their examinations, I lived from hand to mouth, but I did
live, and I was able to continue my studies in philosophy.'"

Uncle Renaud was openly nodding encouragement. Adhemar Meydieux rose
heavily, and straightening up with a succession of jerky movements,
caught himself squarely on his heels, and then, with great conviction,
said: "See here, child, if I were your father, I should take you by
the ear and put you out of the room."

Esperance turned purple.

"I repeat, children should obey without question!"

"I hope to prove to my daughter by reasoning that she is probably
wrong," said M. Darbois very quietly.

"Not at all. You must order, not persuade."

"Now, M. Meydieux," exclaimed the young painter, "it seems to me that
you are going a little too far. Children should respect their parents'
wishes as far as possible; but when it is a question of their own
future, they have a right to present their side of the case. If my
uncle Darbois's father had had his way, my uncle Darbois would
probably now be a mediocre engineer, instead of the brilliant
philosopher who is admired and recognized by the entire world."

Gentle little Madame Darbois sat up proudly, and Esperance looked at
her father with a world of tenderness in her eyes.

"But, my lad," pursued Adhemar, swelling with conviction, "your uncle
might well have made a fortune at machinery, while, as it is, he has
just managed to exist."

"We are very happy"--Madame Darbois slipped in her word.

Esperance had bounded out of her chair, and from behind her father
encircled his head with her arms. "Oh! yes, very happy," she murmured
in a low voice, "and you would not, darling papa, spoil the harmony of
our life together?"

"Remember, my dear little Esperance, what I said to your mother
concerned only men--now we are considering the future of a young girl,
and that is a graver matter!"


"Because men are better armed against the struggle, and life is, alas,
one eternal combat."

"The armour of the intellect is the same for a young girl as for a
young man."

Adhemar shook his shoulders impatiently. Seeing that he was getting
angry and was like to explode, Esperance cried out, "Wait, godfather,
you must let me try to convince my parents. Suppose, father, that I
had chosen the same career as Maurice. What different armour should I

François listened to his daughter affectionately, drawing her closer
to him. "Understand me, my dearie. I am not denying your wish as a
proof of my parental authority. No, remember this is the second time
that you have expressed your will in the matter of the choice of your
career. The first time I asked you to consider it for six months: The
six months having passed, you now place me under the obligation of--"

"Oh! papa, what a horrid word!"

"But that is it," he went on, playing with her pretty hair, "you have
put me under the obligation of answering you definitely; and I have
called this family council because I have not the courage, nor,
perhaps, the right, to stand in your way--the way you wish to go."

Adhemar made a violent effort to leap to his feet, declaiming in his
heavy voice, "Yes, François, you must try and prevent her from going
this way, the most evil, the most perilous above all, for a woman."

Esperance began to tremble, but she stood resolutely away from her
father, holding herself rigid with her arms hanging straight at her
sides. The rose tint of her cheeks had disappeared and her blue eyes
were dimmed with shadows.

Maurice hastily made a number of sketches of her; never before had he
found his cousin so interesting.

Adhemar continued, "Pray allow me to proceed with what I have to say,
my dear child. I have come from the country for this purpose, in
answer to your father's summons. I wish to offer my experience for
your protection. Your parents know nothing of life. François breathes
the ether of a world peopled only by philosophers--whether dead or
living, it makes little difference; your mother lives only for you
two. I expressed at once my horror at the career that you have chosen,
I expatiated upon all the dangers! You seem to have understood
nothing, and your father, thanks to his philosophy, that least
trustworthy of guides, continues futilely reasoning, for ever

His harangue was cut short. Esperance's clear voice broke in, "I do
not wish to hear you speak in this manner of my father, godfather,"
she said coldly. "My father lives for my mother and me. He is good and
generous. It is you who are the egoist, godfather!"

François started as if to check his daughter, but she continued, "When
mama was so sick, six years ago, papa sent me with Marguerite, our
maid, to take a letter to you. I did so want to read that letter, it
must have been so splendid.... You answered...."

Adhemar tried to get in a word. Esperance in exasperation tapped the
floor with her foot and rushed on, "You answered, 'Little one, you
must tell your papa that I will give him all the advice he wants to
help him out of this trouble, but it is a principle of mine never to
lend money, above all to my good friends, for that always leads to a
quarrel.' Then I left you and went to my Uncle Renaud, who gave me a
great deal more even than we needed for mama."

Big Renaud looked hot and uncomfortable. His son pressed his hand so
affectionately under the table that the good man's eyes grew wet.

"Ever since then, godfather, I have not cared for you any more."

The atmosphere of the little room seemed suddenly to congeal. The
silence was intense. Adhemar himself remained thunderstruck in his
chair, his tongue dry, his thoughts chaotic, unable to form a reply to
the child's virulent attack. For the sake of breaking up this general
paralysis, Maurice Renaud finally suggested that they should vote upon
the decision to be given to his brave little cousin.

They gathered together around the table and began to talk in low
tones. Esperance had sunk into a chair. Her face was very pale and
great blue circles had appeared around her eyes. The discussion seemed
to be once more in full swing when Maurice startled everyone by
crying, "My God, Esperance is ill!"

The child had fainted, and her head hung limply back. Her golden hair
made an aureola of light around the colourless face with its dead
white lips.

Maurice raised the child in his arms, and Madame Darbois led him
quickly to Esperance's little room where he laid the light form on its
little bed. François Darbois moistened her temples quickly with Eau de
Cologne. Madame Darbois supported Esperance's head, holding a little
ether to her nose. As Maurice looked about the little room, as fresh,
as white, as the two pots of marguerites on the mantel-shelf, an
indefinable sentiment swelled up within him. Was it a kind of
adoration for so much purity? Philippe Renaud had remained in the
dining-room where he succeeded in keeping Adhemar, in spite of his
efforts to follow the Darbois.

Esperance opened her eyes and seeing beside her only her father and
mother, those two beings whom she loved so deeply, so tenderly, she
reached out her arms and drew close to her their beloved heads.
Maurice had slipped out very quietly. "Papa dearie, Mama beloved,
forgive me, it is not my fault," she sobbed.

"Don't cry, my child, now, not a tear," cried Darbois, bending over
his little girl. "It is settled, you shall be...." and the word was
lost in her little ear.

She went suddenly pink, and raising herself towards him, whispered her
reply, "Oh! I thank you! How I love you both! Thank you! Thank you!"


Esperance, left alone with her mother, drank the tea this tender
parent brought to her, and the look of health began to come back to
her face.

"Then to-morrow, mother dearest, we must go and be registered for the
examinations that are soon to be held at the Conservatoire."

"You want to go to-morrow?"

"Yes, to-day we must stay with papa, mustn't we? He is so kind!"

The two--mother and daughter--were silent a moment, occupied with the
same tender thoughts.

"And now we will persuade him to go out with us, shan't we, mother

"That will be the very best thing for both of you," agreed Madame
Darbois, and she went to make her preparations.

Left alone, Esperance cast aside her blue dress and surveyed herself
in the long mirror. Her eyes were asking the questions that perplexed
her whole being. She raised herself lightly on her little feet. "Oh!
yes, surely I am going to be tall. I am only fifteen, and I am quite
tall for my age. Oh! yes, I shall be tall." She came very close to the
mirror and examined herself closely, hypnotizing herself little by
little. She beheld herself under a million different aspects. Her whole
life seemed passing before her, shadowy figures came and went--one of
them, the most persistent, seemed to keep stretching towards her long
appealing arms. She shivered, recoiled abruptly, and passing her hand
across her forehead, dispelled the dizzy visions that were gathering

When her mother returned she found her quietly reading Victor Hugo,
studying "_Dona Sol_" in _Hernani_. She had not heard the opening
of the door, and she started at finding her mother close beside her.

"You see, I am not going to lose any time," she said, closing the
book. "Ah! mama, how happy I am, how happy!"

"Quick," said her mother, her finger to her lips. "Your father is
waiting for us, ready to go out."

Esperance seized her hat and coat quickly and ran to join her father.
He was sitting as if thinking, his head resting in his hands. She
understood the struggle between love and reason in his soul, and her
upright little soul suffered with his. Bending gently beside him she
murmured, "Do not be unhappy, papa. You know that I can never suffer
as long as I have you two. If I am quite mistaken, if life doesn't
bring me any of the things that I expect, I shall find comfort in your

François Darbois raised his head and looked deep into the lovely eyes,
"God keep you, my little daughter!"

Next morning Esperance was ready to go to the Conservatoire long
before the appointed hour. M. Darbois was already in his study with
one of his pupils, so she ran to her mother's room and found her busy
with some papers.

"You have my birth certificate?"

"Yes, yes."

"And papa's written consent?"

"Yes, yes," sighed Madame Darbois.

"He hesitated to give it to you?"

"Oh! no, you know your father! His word is sacred, but it cost him a
great deal. My dear little girl, never let him regret it."

Esperance put her finger across her mother's lips. "Mama, you know
that I am honest and honourable, how can I help it when I am the child
of two darlings as good as you and papa? My longing for the theatre is
stronger than I can tell. I believe that if papa had refused his
permission, it would have made me unhappy and that I should have
fallen ill and pined away. You remember how, about a year ago, I
almost died of anaemia and consumption. Really, mother dear, my
illness was simply caused by my overstrung nerves. I had often heard
papa express his disapproval of the theatre; and you, you remember,
said one day, in reference to the suicide of a well-known actress,
'Ah, her poor mother, God keep me from seeing my daughter on the

Madame Darbois was silent for a moment; then two tears rolled quietly
from beneath her eyelids and a little sob escaped her.

"Ah! mama, mama," cried Esperance, "have pity, don't let me see you
suffer so. I feared it; I did not want to be sure of it. I am an
ungrateful daughter. You love me so much! You have indulged me so! I
ought to give in. I can not, and your grief will kill me. I suffered
so yesterday, out driving, feeling papa so far away. I kept feeling as
if he were holding himself aloof in an effort to forget, and now you
are crying.... Mama, it is terrible! I must make myself give you back
your happiness--at least your peace of mind. Alas!--I can not give you
back your happiness, for I think that I shall die if I cannot have my

Madame Darbois trembled. She was familiar with her daughter's nervous,
high-strung temperament. In a tone of more authority than Esperance
had ever heard her use, "Come, child, be quick, we are losing time,"
she said, "I have all the necessary papers, come."

They found at the Conservatoire several women, who had arrived before
them, waiting to have their daughters entered for the course. Four
youths were standing in a separate group, staring at the young girls
beside their mothers. In a corner of the room was a little office,
where the official, charged with receiving applications, was
ensconced. He was a man of fifty, gruff, jaundiced from liver trouble,
looking down superciliously at the girls whose names he had just
received. When Madame Darbois entered with Esperance, the
distinguished manner of the two ladies caused a little stir. The group
of young men drew nearer. Madame Darbois looked about, and seeing an
empty bench near a window, went towards it with her daughter. The sun,
falling upon Esperance's blonde hair, turned it suddenly into an
aureola of gold. A murmur as of admiration broke from the spectators.

"Now there is someone," murmured a big fat woman with her hands
stuffed into white cotton gloves, "who may be sure of her future!"

The official raised his head, dazzled by the radiant vision.
Forgetting the lack of courtesy he had shown those who had preceded
her, he advanced towards Madame Darbois and, raising his black velvet
cap, "Do you wish to register for the entrance examinations?" he said
to Esperance.

She indicated her mother with an impatient movement of her little
head. "Yes," said Madame Darbois, "but I come after these other
people. I will wait my turn."

The man shrugged his shoulders with an air of assurance. "Please
follow me, ladies."

They rose. A sound of discontent was audible.

"Silence," cried the official in fury. "If I hear any more noise, I
will turn you all out."

Silence descended again. Many of these women had come a long way. A
little dressmaker had left her workshop to bring her daughter. A big
chambermaid had obtained the morning's leave from the bourgeois house
where she worked. Her daughter stood beside her, a beautiful child of
sixteen with colourless hair, impudent as a magpie. A music teacher
with well-worn boots had excused herself from her pupils. Her two
daughters flanked her to right and left, Parisian blossoms, pale and
anaemic. Both wished to pass the entrance examinations, the one as an
ingenue in comedy, the other in tragedy. They were neither comic nor
tragic, but modest and charming. There was also a small shop-keeper,
covered with jewels. She sat very rigid, far forward on the bench,
compressed into a terrible corset which forced her breast and back
into the humps of a punchinello; her legs hanging just short of the
floor. Her daughter paced up and down the long room like a colt
snorting impatiently to be put through its paces. She had the beauty
of a classic type, without spot or blemish, but her joints looked too
heavy and her neck was thrust without grace between her large
shoulders. Anyone who looked into the future would have been able to
predict for her, with some certainty, an honourable career as a
tragedian in the provinces.

Madame Darbois seated herself on the only chair in the little office.
When the official had read Esperance's birth certificate, he
exclaimed, "What! Mademoiselle is the daughter of the famous professor
of philosophy?'"

The two women looked at each other with amazement.

"Why, ladies," went on the official, radiantly, "my son is taking
courses with M. Darbois at the Sorbonne. What a pleasure it is to meet
you--but how does it happen that M. Darbois has allowed...?" His
sentence died in his throat. Madame Darbois had become very pale and
her daughter's nostrils quivered. The official finished with his
papers, returned them politely to Madame Darbois, and said in a low
tone, "Have no anxiety, Madame, the little lady has a wonderful future
before her."

The two ladies thanked the official and made their way toward the
door. The group of young men bowed to the young girl, and she inclined
her head ever so slightly.

"Oh, la-la," screamed the big chamber-maid.

Esperance stopped on the threshold and looked directly at the woman,
who blushed, and said nothing more.

"Ho, ho," jeered one of the youths, "she settled you finely that time,
didn't she?"

An argument ensued instantly, but Esperance had gone her way,
trembling with happiness. Everything in life seemed opening for her.
For the first time she was aware of her own individuality; for the
first time she recognized in herself a force: would that force work
for creation or destruction? The child pressed her hands against her
fluttering heart.

M. Darbois was waiting at the window. At sight of him, Esperance
jumped from the carriage before it stopped. "What a little creature of
extremes!" mused the professor.

When she threw her arms about him to thank him, he loosed her hands
quickly. "Come, come, we haven't time to talk of that. We must sit
down at once. Marguerite is scolding because the dinner is going to be

To Esperance the dinner was of less than no importance, but she threw
aside her hat obediently, pulled forward her father's chair, and sat
down between the two beings whom she adored, but whom she was forced
to see suffer if she lived in her own joy--and that she could not, and
would not, hide.


The weeks before the long-expected day of the examination went
by all too slowly to suit Esperance. She had chosen, for the
comedy test to study a scene from _Les Femmes Savantes_ (the
rôle of "_Henriette_"), and in tragedy a scene from _Iphygenia_.
Adhemar Meydieux often came to inquire about his goddaughter's
studies. He wished to hear her recite, to give her advice; but
Esperance refused energetically, still remembering his former
opposition against him. She would let no one hear her recitations, but
her mother. Madame Darbois put all her heart into her efforts to help
her daughter. Every morning she went through her work with Esperance.
To her the rôle of "_Henriette_" was inexplicable. She consulted
her husband, who replied, "'_Henriette_' is a little philosopheress
with plenty of sense. Esperance is right to have chosen this scene
from _Les Femmes Savantes_. Molière's genius has never exhibited
finer raillery than in this play." And he enlarged upon the psychology
of "_Henriette's_" character until Madame Darbois realized with surprise
that her daughter was completely in accord with the ideas laid down
by her father as to the interpretation of this rôle. Esperance was
so young it seemed impossible that she could yet understand all the
double subtleties....

Esperance had taken her first communion when she was eleven, and after
her religious studies ended, she had thought of nothing but poetry,
and had even tried to compose some verses. Her father had encouraged
her, and procured her a professor of literature. From that time the
child had given herself completely to the art of the drama, learning
by heart and reciting aloud the most beautiful parts of French
literature. Her parents, listening with pleasure to her recitations of
Ronsard or Victor Hugo, little guessing that the child was already
dreaming of the theatre. Often since then, Madame Darbois had
reproached herself for having foreseen so little, but her husband,
whose wisdom recognized the uselessness of vain regrets, would calm
her, saying with a shake of his head, "You can prevent nothing, my
dear wife, destiny is a force against which all is impotent! We can
but remove the stumbling-blocks from the path which Esperance must
follow. We must be patient!"

At last the day arrived! Never had the young girl been more charming.
François Darbois had been working arduously on the correction of a
book he was about to publish, when he saw her coming into his library.
He turned towards her and, regarding her there in the doorway, seemed
to see the archangel of victory--such radiance emanated from this frail
little body.

"I wanted to kiss you, father, before going ... there. Pardon me for
having disturbed you." He pressed her close against his heart without
speaking, unwilling to pronounce the words of regret that mounted to
his lips.

Esperance was silent for an instant before her father's grief: then
with an exaltation of her whole being she flung herself on her
father's neck: "Oh, father, dear father, I am so happy that you must
not suffer; you love me so much that you must be happy in this
happiness I owe to you; to-morrow, perhaps, will bring me tears. Let us
live for to-day."

The professor gently stroked his daughter's velvet cheek. "Go, my
darling, go and return triumphant."

In the reception-room Esperance and Madame Darbois went to the same
bench, where they had sat upon their former visit. Some fifty people
were assembled.

The same official came to speak to them, and, consulting the list
which he was holding ostentatiously, "There are still five pupils
before you, Mademoiselle, two boys and three young ladies. Whom have
you chosen to give you your cues?"

Esperance looked at him with amazement. "I don't understand," she
said, Madame Darbois was perturbed.

"But," answered the man, "you must have an '_Armande_' for _Les Femmes
Savantes_, an '_Agememnon_' and a '_Clytemnestra_' for _Iphygenia_."

"But we did not know that," stammered Madame Darbois.

The official smiled and assumed still more importance. "Wait just a
moment, ladies." Soon he returned, leading a tall, young girl with a
dignified bearing, and a young man of evident refinement. "Here is Mlle.
Hardouin, who is willing to give you the cues for '_Armande_' and
'_Clytemnestra_,' and M. Jean Perliez, who will do the '_Agememnon_.'
Only, I believe," he added, "you will have to rehearse with them. I
will take all four of you into my little office where no one can
disturb you."

Mlle. Hardouin was a beautiful, modest young girl of eighteen, with
charming manners. She was an orphan and lived with a sister ten years
older, who had been a mother to her. They adored each other. The older
sister had established a good trade for herself as a dressmaker; both
sisters were respected and loved.

Jean Perliez was the son of a chemist. His father had been unwilling
that he should choose a theatrical career until he should have
completed his studies at college. He had obeyed, graduated
brilliantly, and was now presenting himself for the entrance
examination as a tragedian.

The three young people went over the two scenes Esperance had chosen

"What a pretty voice you have, Mademoiselle," said Genevieve Hardouin

After the rehearsal of _Les Femmes Savantes_, when they finished the
scene of _Iphygenia_, Jean Perliez turned to Madame Darbois and inquired
the name of Esperance's instructor.

"Why, she had none. My daughter has worked alone; I have given her the
cues." She smiled that benevolent smile, which always lighted her
features with a charm of true goodness and distinction.

"That is indeed remarkable," murmured Jean Perliez, as he looked at
the young girl. Then bending towards Madame Darbois, "May I be
permitted, Madame, to ask your daughter to give me the cues of
'_Junia_' in _Britannicus_? The young lady who was to have played it
is ill."

Madame Darbois hesitated to reply and looked towards Esperance.

"Oh! yes, mama, of course you will let me," said that young lady, in
great spirits. And without more ado, "We must rehearse, must we not?
Let us begin at once."

The young man offered her the lines. "I don't need them," she said
laughing, "I know '_Junia_' by heart." And, indeed, the rehearsal
passed off without a slip, and the little cast separated after
exchanging the most enthusiastic expressions of pleasure.

A comrade asked Perliez, "Is she any good, that pretty little blonde?"

"Very good," Perliez replied curtly.

Everything went well for Esperance. Her appearance on the miniature
stage where the examinations were held caused a little sensation among
the professor-judges.

"What a heavenly child!" exclaimed Victorien Sardou.

"Here is truly the beauty of a noble race," murmured Delaunay, the
well-known member of the Comedie-Française.

The musical purity of Esperance's voice roused the assembly
immediately out of its torpor. The judges, no longer bored and
indifferent, followed her words with breathless attention, and when
she stopped a low murmur of admiration was wafted to her.

"Scene from _Iphygenia_," rasped the voice of the man whose duty
it was to make announcements. There was a sound of chairs being
dragged forward, and the members of the jury settling themselves to
the best advantage for listening. Here in itself was a miniature
triumph, repressed by the dignity assumed by all the judges, but which
Esperance appreciated none the less. She bowed with the sensitive
grace characteristic of her. Genevieve Hardouin and Jean Perliez
congratulated her with hearty pressures of the hand.

As she was leaving Sardou stopped her in the vestibule. "Tell me,
please, Mademoiselle, are you related to the professor of philosophy?"

"He is my father," the girl answered very proudly.

Delaunay had arisen. "You are the daughter of François Darbois! We
are, indeed, proud to be able to present our compliments to you. You
have an extraordinary father. Please tell him that his daughter has
won every vote."

Esperance read so much respect and sincerity in his expression that
she curtsied as she replied, "My father will be very happy that these
words have been spoken by anyone whom he admires as sincerely as M.

Then she went quickly on her way.

As soon as they were back on the Boulevard Raspail and home, Esperance
and her mother moved towards the library. Marguerite, the maid,
stopped them. "Monsieur has gone out. He was so restless. Is
Mademoiselle satisfied?"

"I was; but I am not any more, Marguerite, since papa is not here. Was
he feeling badly?"

"Well, he was not very cheerful, Mademoiselle, but I should not say
that there was anything really the matter with him."

Mother and daughter started. Someone was coming upstairs. Esperance
ran to the door and fell into the arms of that dearly-loved parent. He
kissed her tenderly. His eyes were damp.

"Come, come, dear, that I may tell you...."

"Your lunch is ready," announced Marguerite.

"Thank you," replied Esperance; "papa, mama, and I, we are all dying
of hunger."

Madame Darbois gently removed her daughter's hat.

"Please, dear papa, I want to tell you everything."

"Too late, dear child, I know everything!"

The two ladies seemed surprised. "But--? How?"

"Through my friend, Victor Perliez, the chemist; who is, like me, a
father who feels deeply about his child's choice of a career."

Esperance made a little move.

"No, little girl," went on François Darbois, "I do not want to cause
you the least regret. Every now and then my innermost thoughts may
escape me; but that will pass.... I know that you showed unusual
simplicity as '_Henriette_,' and emotion as '_Iphygenia_.' Perliez's
son, whom I used to know when he was no higher than that," he said,
stretching out his hand, "was enthusiastic? He is, furthermore, a
clever boy, who might have made something uncommon out of himself
as a lawyer, perhaps. But--"

"But, father dear, he will make a fine lawyer; he will have an
influence in the theatre that will be more direct, more beneficial,
more far-reaching, than at the Bar. Oh! but yes! You remember, don't
you, mama, how disturbed you were by M. Dubare's plea on behalf of the
assassin of Jeanne Verdier? Well, is it not noble to defend the poets,
and introduce to the public all the new scientific and political

"Often wrong ideas," remarked Darbois.

"That is perhaps true, but what of it? Have you not said a thousand
times that discussion is the necessary soil for the development of new

The professor of philosophy looked at his daughter, realizing that
every word he had spoken in her hearing, all the seed that he had cast
to the wind, had taken root in her young mind.

"But," inquired Madame Darbois, "where did you see M. Perliez?"

The professor began to smile. "Outside the Conservatoire. Perliez and
I ran into each other, both impelled by the same extreme anxiety
towards the scene of our sacrifice. It is not really necessary to
consult all the philosophical authorities on this subject of inanition
of will," he added, wearily.

"Oh! chocolate custard," cried out Esperance with rapture, "Marguerite
is giving us a treat."

"Yes, Mademoiselle, I knew very well...."

A ring at the front door bell cut short her words. They listened
silently, and heard the door open, and someone come in. Then the maid
entered with a card.

François Darbois rose at once. "I will see him in the salon," he said.

He handed the card to his wife and went to meet his visitor. Esperance
leaned towards her mother and read with her the celebrated name,
"Victorien Sardou." Together they questioned the import of this visit,
without being able to find any satisfactory explanation.

When François entered the salon, Sardou was standing, his hands
clasped behind him, examining through half-closed eyes a delicate
pastel, signed Chaplain--a portrait of Madame Darbois at twenty. At
the professor's entry, he turned round and exclaimed with the engaging
friendliness that was one of his special charms, "What a very pretty
thing, and what superb colour!"

Then advancing, "It is to M. François Darbois that I have the pleasure
of speaking, is it not?"

He had not missed the formality in the surprise evinced by the
professor as, without speaking, the professor bowed him towards a

"Let me say to begin with, my dear professor, that I am one of your
most fervent followers. Your last book, _Philosophy is not
Indifference_, is, in my opinion, a work of real beauty. Your
doctrine does not discourage youth, and after reading your book, I
decided to send my sons to your lectures."

François Darbois thanked the great author. The ice was broken. They
discussed Plato, Aristotle, Montaigne, Schaupenhauer, etc. Victorien
Sardou heard the clock strike; he had lunched hastily and had to be
back at the Conservatoire by two o'clock, as the jury still had to
hear eleven pupils. He began laughing and talking very fast, in his
habitual manner: "I must tell you, however, why I have come; your
daughter, who passed her examination this morning, is very excellent.
She has the making of a real artist; the voice, the smile, the grace,
the distinction, the manner, the rhythm. This child of fifteen has
every gift! I am now arranging a play for the Vaudeville. The
principal rôle is that of a very young girl. Just at present there are
only well-worn professionals in the theatre."

He rose. "Will you trust your daughter to me? I promise her a good
part, an engagement only for my play, and I assure you of her

M. Darbois, in his amazement and in spite of the impatience of the
academician, withheld his answer. "Pray permit me," he said, touching
the bell, "to send for my daughter. It is with great anxiety, I admit
to you, that I have given her permission to follow a theatrical
career, so now I must consult her, while still trying to advise."

Then to the maid, "Ask Madame and Mademoiselle to come here."

Sardou came up to the professor and pressed his hand gratefully. "You
are consistent with your principles. I congratulate you; that is very
rare," he said.

The two ladies came in.

"Ah," he continued, glancing toward the pastel, after he had greeted
Madame Darbois, "Here is the model of this beautiful portrait."

The gracious lady flushed, a little embarrassed, but flattered. After
the introduction, Sardou repeated his proposal to Esperance, who, with
visible excitement, looked questioningly at her father.

"It seems to me," said Madame Darbois, timidly, "that this is rather
premature. Do you feel able to play so soon in a real theatre, before
so many people?"

"I feel ready for anything," said the radiant girl quickly, in a clear

Sardou raised his head and looked at her.

"If you think, M. Sardou, that I can play the character, I shall be
only too happy to try; the chance you give me seems to come from
destiny. I must endeavour as soon as possible to appease my dear
father for his regret for having given me my own way."

François would have spoken, but she prevented him, drawing closer to
him. "Oh, dear papa, in spite of yourself, I see this depression comes
back to you. I want to succeed, and so drive away your heavy

"Then," said Sardou quickly, to relieve them all of the emotion they
were feeling, "it is quite agreed." Turning to Madame Darbois, who was
trembling, "Do not be alarmed, dear Madame; we still have six or eight
months before the plan will be ready for realization, which I feel
sure will be satisfactory to all of us. I see that you are ready to go
out; are you returning to the Conservatoire?"

"Yes," said Esperance, "I promised to give '_Junia's_' cues to M.
Jean Perliez."

"The son of another learned man! The Conservatoire is favoured to-day,"
said Sardou. "I shall be pleased to escort you, Madame," he added,
bowing politely to Madame Darbois, "and this child shall unfold to me
on the way her ideas on the drama: they must be well worth hearing."

It was already late. The two gentlemen shook hands, anticipating that,
henceforth, they would meet as friends.

When they had left him, François looked at the pastel, which he had
not examined for a long time. The young girl smiled at him with that
smile that had first charmed him. He saw himself asking M. de Gossec,
a rich merchant, for the hand of his daughter Germaine. He brushed his
hand across his forehead as if to remove the memory of the refusal he
had received on that occasion: then he smiled at the new vision which
rose before his imagination. He saw himself in the church of St.
Germain des Pres, kneeling beside Germaine de Gossec, trembling with
emotion and happiness. A cloud of sadness passed over his face: now he
was following the hearse of his father-in-law, who had committed
suicide, leaving behind him a load of debt. The philosopher's
expression grew proud and fierce. The first thirteen years of his
marriage had been devoted to paying off this debt: then came the death
of the sister of M. de Gossec, leaving her niece eight hundred
thousand francs, five hundred thousand of which had served to pay the
debt. For the last four years the family had been living in this
comfortable apartment on the Boulevard Raspail, very happy and without
material worries: but how cruel those first thirteen years had been
for this young woman! He gazed at the pastel for a long time, his eyes
filling with tears. "Oh, my dear, dear wife!"

In the carriage on the way to the Conservatoire the conversation was
very animated. The dramatic author was listening with great interest
while the young girl explained her theories on art and life. "What a
strange little being," he thought, and his penetrating glance tried in
vain to discover what weakness was most likely to attack this little
creature who seemed so perfect.

The carriage stopped at the Conservatoire. Jean Perliez was waiting at
the foot of the stairs. At sight of them his face lighted up. "I was
afraid that you had forgotten me in the joy of your success."

The girl looked at him in amazement. "How could I forget when I had
given my word?"

"You know Victorien Sardou?"

"Only to-day," said Esperance laughing; "yesterday we did not know

They were back in the reception-room which was only a little less
noisy than it was in the morning. Many candidates believed that they
had been accepted; several had even received encouraging applause;
others, who had been received in frigid silence, comforted themselves
with the reflection that they had at least been allowed to finish.

When Jean Perliez and Esperance entered the auditorium there was a
flattering stir, as much in pleasure at seeing the young girl again,
as in welcome to the future actor.

"Scene from _Britannicus_, M. Jean Perliez, '_Nero_'; Mlle.
Esperance Darbois, '_Junia_,'" proclaimed the usher.

The scene was so very well enacted that a "Bravo" broke from the
learned group around the table. Which one of the judges had not been
able to contain his admiration? The young actors could not decide.
Each one believed sincerely the success was due to the other. They
congratulated each other with charming expressions of delight, and
took each other by the hand.

"We shall be good friends, shall we not, M. Perliez?" said Esperance.

The young man turned quite red, and when Madame Darbois held out her
hand to him, he kissed it politely, with the kiss he had not dared to
give to Esperance.


Esperance having chosen the stage as her career, the whole household
was more or less thrown into confusion. It became necessary to make
several new arrangements. As François Darbois was not willing that his
wife should accompany Esperance every day to the Conservatoire, it
became quite a problem to find a suitable person to undertake this

For the first time in her life Madame Darbois had to endure
humiliating refusals. The young widow of an officer was directed by a
friend of the family to apply. She seemed a promising person.

"You will have to be here every morning by nine," Madame Darbois said
to her, "and you will be free every afternoon by four. The course is
given in the morning, but twice a week there are classes also in the
afternoon; on those days you will lunch with us."

"And Sundays?"

"Your Sundays will be your own. The Conservatoire has no classes on

"So I understand that you would employ me only to accompany your
daughter to the Conservatoire, Madame!" said the officer's widow,
dryly. "I shall be compelled to refuse your offer. I am unfortunately
forced to work to support my two children, but I owe some respect to
the name I bear. The Conservatoire is a place of perdition, and I am
astonished," she added, "that the professor, who is so universally
esteemed and respected, could have been able...."

Madame Darbois rose to her feet. She was very pale. "It is not
necessary for you to judge the actions of my husband, Madame. That is

When she was left alone Madame Darbois reflected sadly upon the
narrow-mindedness of her fellow creatures. Then she reproached herself
with her own inexperience that put her at the mercy of the first
stupid prude she encountered. She was well aware that the
Conservatoire was not supposed to be a centre of culture and
education, but she had already observed the modesty and independence
of several of the young girls there: the well-informed minds of most
of the young men. Nevertheless, she had had her lesson, and was
careful not to lay herself open to any new affront. After some
consideration, she engaged a charming old lady, named Eleanore
Frahender, who had been companion in a Russian family, and was now
living in a convent in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, where only
trustworthy guests could be received. The old lady loved art and
poetry, and as soon as she had met Esperance, was full of enthusiasm
for her new duties. The young girl and she agreed in many tastes, and
very soon they were great friends.

M. Darbois was quite contented with the arrangement, and could now
attend to his work with complete tranquillity. Every morning the
family gathered in the dining-room at half-past eight to take their
coffee together. Esperance would recount all the little events of the
day before and her studies for the day to come. Whenever she felt any
doubt about an ambiguous phrase, she went at once to get her father's
advice upon it. Sometimes Genevieve Hardouin would drop in to talk
with her and Mlle. Frahender. Esperance adored Racine and refused to
study Corneille, before whom Genevieve bowed in enthusiastic

"He is superhuman," she exclaimed, fervently.

"That is just what I reproach him for," returned Esperance. "Racine is
human, that is why I love him. None of Corneille's heroines move me at
all, and I loathe the sorrows of '_Phaedre_.'"

"And '_Chimene_'?" asked Genevieve Hardouin.

"'_Chimene_' has no interest for me. She never does as she

"How feminine!" said the professor, gently.

"Oh! you may be right, father dear, but grief is one and indivisible.
Her father, cruelly killed by her lover, must kill her love for the
lover, or else she does not love her father: and, that being the case,
she doesn't interest me at all. She is a horrid girl." Tenderly she
embraced her father, who could easily pardon her revolt against
Corneille, because he shared her weakness for Racine.

Several months after Esperance's most encouraging admission to the
Conservatoire, Victorien Sardou wrote a note to François Darbois, with
whom he had come to be warm friends, warning him that he was soon
coming to lunch with them, to read his new play to the family.
Esperance was wild with excitement. The time of waiting for the event
seemed interminable to her. Her father tried in vain to calm her with
philosophical reflections. Creature of feeling and impulse that she
was, nothing could control her excitement.

Sardou had also asked François Darbois to invite Mlle. Frahender,
whose generous spirit and whose tact and judgment he much esteemed.
The old lady arrived, carrying as usual the little box with the lace
cap which she donned as soon as her bonnet was laid aside. On this
great day the little cap was embellished by a mauve satin ribbon,
contrasting charmingly with the silver of her hair.

All through lunch Esperance was delightful. Her quick responses to
Sardou's questions were amazing in their logic. The extreme purity of
this young soul seeking self-expression so courageously, struck the
two men with particular emphasis.

The reading was a great success. The part intended for Esperance, the
young girl's part, the heroine of the piece, had become of primary
importance. Sardou had been able to study Esperance's qualifications
during the months he had been a frequent visitor at the Darbois's
home, and he had made the most of his prescience.

Lack of experience of the theatre, so natural in a child of sixteen,
suggested several scenes of pure comedy. Then, as the drama developed,
the author had heightened the intensity of the rôle by several scenes
of real pathos, relying completely on Esperance to interpret them for
him. Quite overcome by the death of the heroine she was to
impersonate, she thanked the author, with tears streaming down her
cheeks, her hands icy, her heart beating so furiously that the linen
of her white blouse rose and fell.

"It is rather I who shall be thanking you the day of the first
production," said Sardou much touched, as he wrapped round his neck
the large, white square he always wore. "I believe that to-day has not
been wasted."

The rehearsals began. Sardou had asked for and obtained from the
Conservatoire six months leave for his young protégée, but Esperance
would on no account consent to give up her classes. The only
concession she would make was to give up the afternoon classes twice a

The press began to notice this infant prodigy, who wished to remain
quite unheralded until her debut. François Darbois, in spite of his
friendship with several journalists, could not make them adhere to
their promises of silence, and when he complained bitterly to the head
of a great daily, "But, my friend," the editor rejoined, "that
daughter of yours is particularly fascinating, and certainly when you
launched her into this whirlpool, you should have remembered that the
only exits are triumph or despair!"

The philosopher grew pale.

"I believe," went on his friend, "that this child will vanquish every
obstacle by the force of her will, will stifle all jealousies by the
grace of her purity, and she already belongs to the public, while the
fame of your name has simply served for a stepping-stone. You, in your
wisdom, have been able to impart true wisdom to your child. But before
the public has ever seen her she is famous, and Sardou affirms that
the day after her appearance she will be the idol of all Paris. I owe
it to the profession of journalism to write her up in my paper, and I
am doing it, you must admit, with the utmost reserve."


And so at last the day of the performance came. Esperance, who was so
easily shaken by the ordinary events of life, met any danger or great
event quite calmly. For this young girl, so delicately fair, so frail
of frame, possessed the soul of a warrior.

The sale of tickets had opened eight days in advance. The agents had
realized big profits. The first night always creates a sensation in
Paris. All the social celebrities were in the audience: and, what is
less usual, many "intellectuals." They wished to testify by their
presence their friendship for François Darbois, and to protest against
certain journalists, who had not hesitated to say in print that such a
furore about an actress (poor Esperance) was prejudicial to the
dignity of philosophy.

In a box was the Minister of Belgium, who had been married lately, and
wanted to show his young wife a "first night" in Paris. The First
Secretary of the Legation was sitting behind the Minister's wife.

"Look there, that is Count Albert Styvens," said a journalist,
pointing out the Secretary to his neighbour, a young beauty in a very
_decolletée_ gown.

The neighbour laughed. "Is he as reserved and as serious as he looks?"
she inquired.

"So they say."

"Poor fellow," answered the pretty woman, with affected pity,
examining him through her opera glasses.

Sardou, behind the scenes, was coming and going, arranging a chair,
changing the position of a table, catching his foot in a carpet,
swearing, nervous in the extreme. He made a hundred suggestions to the
manager, which were received with weariness. He entered into
conversation with the firemen. "Watch and listen, won't you, so that
you can give me your impression after the first act?" For Sardou
always preferred the spontaneous expressions of workmen and common
people to the compliments of his own _confrères_.

The distant skurry in the wings that always precedes the raising of
the curtain was audible on the stage. This rattling of properties is
very noticeable to actors new to the theatre, though it is quite
unsuspected by the general public.

The first act began. The audience was sympathetic, but impatient.
However, the author knew his public, knew when to spring his
surprises, how to hold the emotion in reserve until a climax of
applause at the final triumph.

Esperance made her first entrance, laughing and graceful, as her rôle
demanded. A murmur of admiration mounted from the orchestra to the
balcony. Hers was such startling, such radiant fairness! Her musical,
fluting voice acted like as a strange enchantment on the astonished
audience. From the first moment the public was hers. The critic
touched his neighbour's elbow. "Look at Count Albert, he seems

As the Count leaned forward to watch more intently: "Great Heavens, do
you suppose he will fall in love with her, do you believe he will
really care for that little thing?" murmured the woman, mockingly.

The curtain fell amidst a shower of "Bravos." Esperance had to return
three times before the public, which continued to applaud her
unstintedly, as she smiled and blushed under her make-up. In spite of
fifteen minutes' waiting, the intermission did not seem long. The
occupants of the boxes were busy exchanging calls.

"She is perfectly adorable, she takes your breath. Just think of it,
only sixteen and a half!"

"Do you think it is a wig?"

"Oh! no, that is her own hair--but what a revelation of loveliness!
And what a carriage!"

"But her voice above all! I do not think that I have ever heard such

"She is still at the Conservatoire?"


"The Theatre-Française ought to engage her immediately. They would
find it would at once increase their subscription list."

"They say that her father is very much distressed to see her in the
theatre. Why there they are, the Darbois. Don't you see them, in that
box far back? They are looking very pleased."

A tall, pale man passed by.

"Ah! there goes Count Styvens. Have you read the article he wrote in
the _Debats_ this morning?"

"No, he puts me to sleep."

"I read it; it was rather unusual."

"What about?"

"About the fecundity of the pollen of flowers."

The chatter ceased. The count was within hearing.

"What have you to say about Esperance Darbois?" inquired a young lady.

The count blushed vividly, an unaccustomed light gleaming in his clear
eyes. "It is too soon to pass judgment yet," he said, losing himself
in the throng again.

In the Darbois's box there was a constant coming and going of friends.
Jean Perliez joined them, his face betraying a conflict of emotions
that were not lost on the father of Esperance.

"Did you see my daughter?"

"Yes. I just went to congratulate her."

"How did you find her?"

"Amazing! She is splendid, but not vain. She seems sure of herself and
at the same time shows a little stage fright, a special variety which
makes her hands like ice, and tightens her throat, as you must have
noticed from the strain in her first speeches."

"Indeed I noticed it, and was a little frightened," said Mlle.

"I know," said Jean Perliez, "but we need not be worried. It does not
affect her powers and the force of her decision. She is invincible."

He heaved a deep sigh and withdrew into a corner to hide the emotion
which was choking him. François Darbois had divined the fervent love
this youth felt for his daughter, and understood the sufferings of
this timid love which dared not declare itself lest it be repulsed.
However, the chemist, the father of this young man, occupied a
respected position as a well-to-do man, with an unblemished
reputation. Why should he not declare himself, or at least try to find
some encouragement? François Darbois would have been well contented
with this marriage. Esperance was still too young, but, once engaged,
they could wait awhile. He secretly took cognizance of Jean Perliez's
sufferings, and a wave of pity surged up in his heart. "I will have to
speak to him myself," he thought.

The curtain went up, disclosing Esperance, a book in her hand, her
back to the public. She was not reading. That was evident from the
weary droop of her body, from the rigid gaze into space. A coming
storm was heralded by her quick motion, when she sprang up, threw
aside her book, shook the pretty head to drive away the black
butterflies in her brain, and ran to kiss her stage mother, who was
playing Bridge with the villainess of the piece. There was such
spontaneity in her movements that the sympathetic audience cried out,

In the course of the act, Esperance secured several salvos of
applause. The sustained emotion of the grief that overwhelmed her and
the spasm of weeping which closed the act gave the young artist
complete assurance of the public's earnest approval.

Sardou had dropped into the box of the Minister Plenipotentiary. He
hid himself from the public, but sought the opinion of his great

"Will you," asked the Minister, "present me to your young heroine?"

"Oh! let me come with you," besought his wife.

The Belgian Prince looked questioningly at Sardou, and at his nod of
acquiescence they prepared to go and salute the new star just risen in
the Parisian firmament.

"Come with us, my dear Count."

Albert Styvens became livid, a cold sweat broke out on his forehead, a
polite phrase died in his throat. He rose to his feet and followed the
Prince of Bernecourt.

The little reception-room next to Esperance's dressing-room was full
of flowers, but no one was there. The manager and author had agreed
that no stranger should approach the young artist. Only the family,
Jean Perliez and Mlle. Frahender were allowed to enter. This good old
soul was with Esperance now, as was Marguerite, who was not willing to
leave her young mistress.

Sardou knocked. "Let me know, my dear child, when you are ready."

The door opened almost immediately, and the young girl rushed joyfully
out into the little room. She stopped short upon seeing three
strangers, and her eyes sought Sardou's, full of startled surprise.

"I have taken the liberty of disturbing you, little friend.... I want
to present you to the Princess de Bernecourt."

Esperance curtsied with pretty grace. The Minister-Prince complimented
her graciously; he was a dilettante, who could express himself most
charmingly, in well chosen, artistic terms.

"Your Excellency overcomes me," said the young actress. "I shall do my
best to deserve your kindness."

With a quick movement she re-adjusted her tulle scarf on her shoulders
and blushed a little. The Minister turned and saw Albert Styvens
standing with nervous interest--gazing like one bewitched at the
enchanting maiden.

"Let me present to you Count Albert Styvens."

Esperance inclined her head a little and drew instinctively nearer to
Mlle. Frahender.

The Count had not moved. The Prince led him away as soon as he had
made his adieux to the young girl and the elder lady.

"Are you ill or insane?" he asked his Secretary.

"Insane, yes; I think I must be going insane," murmured the young man
in a choking voice.

The play was in four acts, there were still two to come. The audience
seemed to watch in a delirium of delight, and when the last curtain
dropped, they called Esperance back eight times, and demanded the

In spite of all the talent displayed by Sardou as author, there was
much enthusiasm and an unconscious gratitude in him as the discoverer
of a new sensation.... No comet acclaimed by astronomers as capable of
doubling the harvest would have moved the populace as did the
description in all the papers of this new star in Paris.


The family found itself back on the Boulevard Raspail. The Darbois had
not cared to leave their box. After every act, Mlle. Frahender carried
their comments and tender messages to Esperance. François Darbois had
great difficulty in constraining himself to remain in the noisy
vestibule. He suffered too acutely at seeing his daughter, that pure
and delicate child, the focus of every lorgnette, the subject of every
conversation. Several phrases he had overheard from a group of men had
brought him to his feet in a frenzy; then he fell back in his place
like one stunned. Nevertheless there had not been one offensive word.
It was all praise.

The philosopher held his daughter in his arms, pressed close against
his heart, and tears ran down his cheeks.

"It is the first time, and shall be the last, that I wish to see you
on the stage, dear little daughter. It is too painful for me, and what
is worst of all I fear it will take you away from me."

Esperance replied trembling, "Pardon me, Oh! pardon me, it is such a
force that impels me. I am sorry you suffer so. Oh! don't give way, I
beg of you!"

She fell on her knees before her father, sobbing and kissing his

Sardou, who was expected, came in just then, and his exuberance was
dashed to the ground when he witnessed the trouble the family were in.

"Come, this is foolishness," he said, helping Esperance to her feet.

Then turning to the old Mademoiselle, "Here, dear lady, take this
child away to compose herself, wash the tears off her poor little
face, and hurry back, for I am dying of hunger."

Madame Darbois remembered that she was the hostess, and disappeared to
see if everything was ready in the dining-room.

As soon as he was left alone with the philosopher, the author
exclaimed, "In the name of God, man, is this where philosophy leads
you? You are torturing that child whom you adore! Oh! yes, you are
distressed, I know. The public has this evening taken possession of
your daughter, but you are powerless to prevent it, and now is the time
for you to apply to yourself your magnetic maxims. Esperance is one of
those creatures who are only born once in a hundred years or so; some
come as preservers, like Joan of Arc; others serve as instruments of
vengeance of some occult power" (Sardou was an ardent believer in the
occult). "Your child is a force of nature, and nothing can prevent her
destiny. The fact that you have seen her brilliant development in spite
of the grey environment of her first sixteen years, should convince you
of the uselessness of your protests or regrets. The career that she has
chosen is bristling with dangers, and full of disillusions, and gives
free rein to a pitiless horde of calumniators. That cannot be helped.
Your task, my friend," he added more calmly, "is to protect your
daughter, and above all to assure her of a refuge of tenderness, and
love and understanding."

Esperance came back, followed by her mother and the old Mademoiselle.
Her father held out his arms to her and whispered, "You were
wonderful, darling; I am happy to...."

He could not go on, and put his hot lips against her beautiful pure
forehead to avoid the embarrassment that distressed him so powerfully.

Thanks to Sardou's gifts as a _raconteur_, the supper passed off
pleasantly enough. This great man could unfold the varied pages of his
mind with disconcerting ease. He knew everything, and could talk and
act with inimitable vivacity. His anecdotes were always instructive,
drawn from his manifold sources of knowledge in art or science. Mlle.
Frahender was stupified by so much eclecticism, the philosopher forgot
his grief, Madame Darbois realized for the first time that there might
exist a brain worthy of comparison with her husband's. As to
Esperance, she was living in a dream of what the future would unfold.
One evening had sufficed for her to conquer Paris, to capture the
provinces, and arouse the foreigner, frequently so indifferent to
great artistic achievements.

The young pupil pursued her courses at the Conservatoire, in spite of
Sardou's remonstrances that she would find it fatiguing. The modesty
and simplicity of her return to the midst of her comrades restored her
to the popularity her triumph had endangered.

"She is, you know, quite a 'sport,'" pronounced a sharp young person,
who was destined to take the parts of the aggressive modern female.

A tall young man, with a grave face and settled manner, approaching
baldness, in spite of his twenty-three years, pressed Jean Perliez's
hand affectionately. "Don't give in, old fellow, keep up hope. You
never know!"

Jean smiled sadly, shaking his head. He looked at Esperance, who was
lovelier than ever. He had waited for her at the foot of the stairway,
for the intimacy of the two families gave him a chance to know when to
expect his glorious little friend.

"Why, how pale you are, Jean!" she exclaimed at sight of him. "What is
the matter with you?"

"What is the matter with me?" he murmured.

"What is the matter with him?" echoed several of the students.

Esperance alone was not aware what was the matter with him, poor
fellow, for, in spite of the encouragement of François Darbois, Jean
would say nothing. He realized the shock that it would be to
Esperance. She liked him so much as a friend! On the long walks they
took, with Genevieve Hardouin and Mlle. Frahender, she had very often
frankly confided to him that she did not want to think about getting
married for years and years!

"I want to live for my art," she would say, "and I will never marry an

He had then thought very seriously of giving up the theatre and
becoming a barrister, as his father had always wished him to do, but
that would mean that he would lose the chance of seeing Esperance so

Jean Perliez had become great friends with Maurice Renaud, the girl's
cousin. They both talked of her and loved her, but Maurice's love was
more selfish, less deeply rooted. He was not jealous of Perliez; he
was sorry for him and counselled him to speak up, since his uncle, the
professor, was in sympathy with him.

"No," said Jean, "she is really too young to understand."

Maurice shrugged his shoulders. "It is true that Esperance is not yet
seventeen, but her intelligence has always been ahead of her years. At
twelve she could outdo me by the logic of her reasoning on the
mysteries of religion. We both adore, my dear Jean, a very
extraordinary little person. I will get out of your way gracefully, if
you succeed; but I have a presentiment that neither you nor I will be
the lucky fellow. I shall console myself, but you, take care!"

Esperance suspected nothing of the different emotions she was causing.
Her youth guarded her against any betrayal of the senses. She thought
that love was the natural result of marriage. The great passions as
the poets sang them exalted her spirit, made her heart beat faster,
but for her they remained in the realms of the ideal.


A horrible catastrophe occurred in Belgium, leaving the inhabitants of
the lower quarter of Brussels without shelter or clothing. Relief was
organized on all sides, and the Theatre-Française announced a great
representation of _Hernani_ to be given as a benefit for the
sufferers in the Royal Theatre de la Monnaie in Brussels. The star who
had undertaken "_Dona Sol_" fell ill ten days before the performance
was due. The Comedie was much embarrassed, for the usual understudy
of the indisposed actress was an amiable echo, with little talent.
Mounet-Sully thought immediately of Esperance and obtained permission
to make whatever arrangements he could with her. His arrival at the
Darbois home occasioned great excitement.

"I claim your indulgence in the name of charity, Monsieur," he said to
François. "The Comedie-Française finds itself in the most awkward
quandary. We have prepared a big gala performance at La Monnaie, to
raise money for all those poor Belgian sufferers."

"Oh! I have seen the notices," said Esperance, "with artistes of the
Comedie, even in the smaller rôles. What would I not give to see that

Mounet-Sully smiled. "If your father will give his permission,
Mademoiselle, you can certainly see it; for I have come to ask you to
take part therein."

"What do you mean?" asked M. Darbois curiously.

"Our '_Dona Sol_' is sick, very sick, and her understudy is not
equal to such an occasion. The last examination you passed in
_Hernani_ delighted us with your manner of interpreting the rôle.
We will give you all the rehearsals you need at the Comedie; you will
be assisting at a work of charity, and you will be recompensed for
whatever outlay or expense that you may incur."

Esperance drew herself up. "If my father will give his consent for me
to make my own reply...."

"Yes," said the professor simply.

"Then I will say ... thank you, father dear," she said, tremulously,
"I will say that I am happier than I can possibly tell you, at the
great honour you have done me, but that I do not want any recompense."

Mounet-Sully started to speak.

"Oh! no, I beg you, do not spoil my joy."

"Then, we will take care of your travelling expenses, and those of
your party."

She contracted her beautiful eyebrows a little. "Oh! M. Mounet-Sully,
I am rich just now, think of all the money that I have made these four
months that we have been giving Victorien Sardou's play. I don't want
anything, I am glad, so glad...."

She kissed her father and her mother impulsively, and also the
astonished old Mademoiselle.

"What about me?" asked Mounet-Sully gaily; "do I not get my reward?"

She held up her forehead for a salutation from the artist, who took
leave of the family, glowing with delight at the good news he had to
carry back to the Comedie.

"To-morrow you will get a schedule of rehearsals," he called from the

Madame Darbois was worried about the journey, and Mlle. Frahender
agreed to accompany Esperance. It was decided that Marguerite should
go to look after them. The faithful soul had practically brought up
the child; her zeal and devotion were unfailing.

But M. Darbois raised the objection, "You should have a man with you."

The door bell rang, then they heard a voice, "In the salon? Don't
bother to announce me, I'll go up!"

Maurice Renaud entered immediately, followed by Jean Perliez.

"Well, my boy," said François Darbois to his nephew, "you are quite a
stranger; it must be a month since we saw you last. You are most

He shook hands cordially with both young men. He was struck by Jean's
sad expression and hollow cheeks. "You are not looking like yourself,
my friend."

Jean did not hear this, he was gazing at Esperance, so pretty in her
feather toque.

"We are come, uncle, expressly to ask your permission to accompany
my cousin to Brussels. We were told of the project yesterday by
Mounet-Sully, and if you approve...."

"On my word, my dear fellow," cried out the professor, delightedly,
"you will do me a real service, I was just considering about writing
to Esperance's godfather!"

"What a narrow escape! papa darling, and what a horrid surprise you
were plotting without giving any sign!"

"Then you prefer this arrangement? You accept Maurice and Jean as your
knights-errant? I am delighted with the arrangement, and I hope that
Mlle. Frahender will raise no objection."

The gentle old lady smiled at them all. She was very fond of Jean
Perliez, and Maurice Renaud's high spirits delighted her.

It was decided that Jean, as most responsible, should be in charge of
all the details of the journey. François Darbois led him into the
library and entrusted him with a goodly sum of money.

"This should cover your expenses. I count upon you, my young friend,
and I thank you."

He paused a moment, then asked affectionately, "Have you no hope?"

"None," replied Jean, simply, "but what does it matter, but to-day, at
least, I am quite happy!"

Two days after this visit, the notice of the first rehearsals was
received. Esperance was at the theatre long before the hour required,
and went at once towards the stage. The curtain had just been raised,
and the lamp of the servant dusting served only to lighten the gloom.
Followed by Mlle. Frahender, the young girl traversed the corridor
ornamented with marble busts and pictures of the famous artists who
had made the house of Molière more illustrious by their talent. With
beating heart, she descended the four steps that led to the stage.

There she stopped shivering. She seemed to see shadows drawing near
her, and her hand clenched that of the old Mademoiselle.

"What is it, Esperance?"

"Nothing, nothing."

"Was that not Talma, down there, and Mlle. Clairon and Mlle. Mars, and
Rachel, that magnificent, expressive masque there ... look?"

Mounet-Sully came in. Esperance still seemed in a dream.

"Your pardon, master, the atmosphere of glory that one breathes here
has intoxicated me a little."

During the rehearsal the music of the voice of the new "_Dona
Sol_" blended charmingly with the powerful accents of the great
actor, so that all the artists listened with emotion and delight.

In the final act, when "_Dona Sol_," beside herself, raises her
poignard to "_Don Ruy Gomez_," saying, "I am of the family,
uncle," there was an outburst of "Bravos" for Esperance, who, erect
and trembling, shoulders thrown back, had just sobbed these words in
a vibrant voice between clenched teeth. With her pale face and
out-stretched arm, she might have been the statue of despair
struggling with destiny.

Madame Darbois was heavy hearted to have her go. It was the first time
that she had been parted from her daughter for even a few days. She
often looked at her husband, hoping that he would understand her
anxiety and urge her not to go, too. Jean and Maurice came to escort
Esperance, who had been ready for a long time. Mlle. Frahender was
carrying a cardboard box, containing two bonnets and a light cloth, in
which to wrap her hat in in the train. All the rest of her belongings
were contained in a little attaché case of grey duck, so flat that it
seemed impossible that it could contain anything.

When Madame Darbois saw them drive away, she was filled with distress,
and as there was maternal anxiety in the mother's breast, so was there
foreboding of evil in the father's mind.

"I hope nothing bad will happen," thought the good woman, "but railway
accidents are so common nowadays."

"Who will she be seeing while she is away? What is destiny providing
for her? My child is not armed against adventure," the philosopher was

The two looked at each other, divining the miserable anxiety to which
the other was prey.

The rough, strident notes of Adhemar Meydieux's voice suddenly broke
upon this atmosphere of gentle melancholy--"Well! what is this I hear?
Esperance has gone; it is madness! I read in my paper this morning
that she is going to play '_Dona Sol_' at Brussels! So I have
come to escort her."

François wrung his hand without saying a word.

"What is the matter with you," went on Adhemar, "you seem to have
changed into pillars of salt. I know very well that the theatre is
Sodom and Gomorrah in one, but wait a little before you give way
entirely! Who is going with my goddaughter?"

"Mlle. Frahender, Marguerite, Maurice Renaud and Jean Perliez," the
poor mother hastened to say.

"And what an escort," jeered Adhemar. "The old mademoiselle will be
open-mouthed before her pupil, she knows nothing of life. Provided
that Esperance obeys the commandments of the Church and does not miss
Mass on Sunday, she will be satisfied. Her piety and her sudden love
of the theatre coincide with her attempt to save a soul; but I tell
you that she cannot see farther than the end of her nose, which,
though long enough in all conscience, doesn't furnish elevation for
much view. And," he continued, pleased with his wit, "Maurice Renaud,
that wild rascal, is he apt to inspire respect for Esperance? As to
Jean Perliez, the poor little ninny is head over heels in love with
her. I don't suppose that you have noticed it?"

"Not only noticed it, but encouraged the young man," said François,
"and he would be a very honourable and desirable son-in-law."

"My poor friend, my good fellow," and Adhemar collapsed in a chair and
rubbed his hands together; "my poor dear friend, and you believe that

He laughed aloud.

"I will thank you to drop that tone of irony which is offensive both
to my wife and to myself," said the professor rising. "If it pleases
you to follow your goddaughter to Brussels, do so. I must leave you; I
have some proofs to correct. _Au revoir_, Meydieux!"

The old blunderer began to realize that he had overstepped the limits
of decorum.

"But why did she go this morning, instead of by the train with all the
other artists this evening?"

"Esperance," explained Madame Darbois, "left early in order to have
time to see Brussels, which everyone says is a charming city. I think
it is quite natural, my dear Meydieux, that you want to join your
goddaughter! I will telegraph to her at once!"

"No, no," replied Meydieux, very hurriedly. "I would much rather
surprise her. I beg you not to warn her."

"As you will then. I shall not interfere."



Meantime seated in the Brussels express, Esperance had fixed her
attention on the constantly changing horizon, and was giving herself
up to myriad impressions as they went fleeting by. The great plains
rolling interminably out of sight pleased her; the light mist rising
from the earth seemed to her the breath of the shivering tall grasses,
offering the sun the drops of dew which glinted at the summit of their
slender stems. She too, on this beautiful autumn morning, felt herself
expanding towards the sky. Her fresh lips were offering themselves to
the kisses of life. She was at that moment a vision of the radiance of
youth. Maurice was so struck by her beauty that he drew a little
sketch, and resolved to do her portrait, just as she was at that
moment. No love entered into this admiration; he saw as a painter, he
dreamed as an artist! Jean Perliez looked at the sketch, then at the
model, and was left dazzled and dolorous. Finally magnetized by the
looks fixed upon her, Esperance turned her head away with a little cry
of surprise. Mlle. Frahender, who had been asleep, opened her eyes,
and straightened the angle of her bonnet. Esperance shook her pretty
head laughing, while Maurice exhibited his sketch and announced to his
cousin his desire to paint her portrait.

"How pleased my father will be," she cried. "I thank you in advance
for the joy that you will give him."

The conversation became general, animated, merry, just what was to be
expected at their happy age. Soon after the train stopped; they had
arrived at Brussels.

Jean Perliez jumped lightly on to the platform. Mlle. Frahender
adjusted her hat, after having carefully folded up her bonnet, and
Maurice helped Marguerite to count the pieces of luggage. Just as
Esperance was getting out to help her old companion, she had a feeling
of reaction, her face grew pale with fright at an impression she could
not define: two long arms were stretched towards her. And she recalled
the hallucination or vision she had seen in her own mirror at home, on
the day when she had tried to interrogate destiny.

Count Albert Styvens was standing on the platform before her, holding
out his arms, his hands open. Totally dazed without understanding
herself why it should be so, the young girl closed her eyes. She felt
herself lifted, and set down upon the ground. Although the movement
had been one of perfect respect, she felt angry with this man for
having imposed his will upon her. When she looked at him he was
already speaking to Mlle. Frahender, whom he recollected having seen
in Esperance's room at the Vaudeville.

"Will you not both take my mother's carriage?" he asked.

His voice, slow, correct, a little distant, fell on the ear of the
young actress.

"But," Jean objected quickly, "I have engaged the landau from the
Grand Hotel."

"Very well, we three can go in that," said the Count, as he guided the
old lady and the young one towards a perfectly appointed _coupé_,
drawn by two magnificent sorrels.

Esperance, who had been brimful of joy, not ten minutes before, at
finding herself in Brussels, now felt a cloud upon her spirits. The
manner, almost the authority, of this tall, young man of distinction,
but of no beauty, of no magnetism, depressed her. She did not wish to
have him take it upon himself to conduct her small affairs, and she
stepped into the Countess Styvens's beautiful carriage with the
feeling that she was leaving her liberty behind.

Albert Styvens got into the hotel landau with the two other young men.
They knew the Count very slightly, and regarded him with some
curiosity. Although but twenty-seven, he had a reputation for
austerity most unusual for one of his age.

As the carriage drew up at the hotel, all three young men jumped
lightly out to be ready to help the girl. Mlle. Frahender was received
on the Count's arm. At the same instant Esperance had bounded out of
the other door, pleased to have escaped the obligation of thanking the
Legation Secretary.

When she entered the suite that had been reserved, she stopped
a moment in silent astonishment before the flowering vases and
ribbon-bedecked baskets that filled the reception-room with their
rich colours and delicate perfumes. All that for her! She threw her
hat quickly on a chair and ran from vase to basket, from basket to
vase. The first card she drew out said Jean Perliez. She looked for
him to thank him, but he had slipped away to hide his confusion. For
he had taken such pains to order that bouquet through the hotel manager,
never foreseeing that others might have had the same idea! A pretty
basket of azaleas came from the Director of the Monnaie. In the middle
of the room, on a marble table with protruding golden feet, stood a
huge basket of orchids of every shade--this orgy of rare flowers was
an attention from the Count. The girl grew red as she raised her eyes
to thank him. He was looking at her so strangely that she stammered
and fled into the next room, where she had seen Mlle. Frahender

"That man frightens me," she whispered, pressing close to her old

"Who frightens you, dear child?"

"Count Styvens."

"That gentlemanly young man, who is so considerate?"

Esperance did not dare to speak her thought. "That is not the way that
others look at me." She was ashamed to entertain such an idea!

The _maître d'hôtel_ knocked discreetly to announce lunch.

"Oh! let us begin at once, so that we shall not lose any time in
seeing Brussels!"

They set out in great spirits, following wherever the caprice of
Esperance led them. "Already a famous woman, and what a child she is,"
Maurice observed aside to Jean. They had a long ramble, zigzagging
extravagantly about the city. The adorable little artist appreciated
the beauty of the lovely capital, and the church of Saint Gudule
delighted her. They took a cab to go to the Bois de la Cambre.
Esperance was much affected by the horses, who led a hard life up and
down the little streets, which were so picturesque in their

The little expedition was not over until half-past seven. Visitors'
cards attracted Mlle. Frahender's attention. They were from the
Minister Prince de Bernecourt and the Count Albert Styvens, Secretary
of the Legation. Feeling that she would not see the Count gave the
young artist the sensation of relief comparable to that of a prisoner
walking straight out of his jail into freedom.

During dinner Esperance was quite exuberant and proposed a hand at
_trente-et-un_ as soon as dessert was finished. "After that, we
will go to bed very early, to have our best looks ready for to-morrow,
will we not, my little lady?" she said, placing her slender hand on
the wrinkled fingers of Mlle. Frahender. "My little lady" was the pet
name Esperance often gave her.

Maurice was only moderately receptive of the idea of a game of
_trente-et-un_, but after consulting the clock, he was reassured.
"By ten o'clock I shall be free."


The next morning Marguerite had some difficulty in waking her young
mistress, who was sleeping soundly. Esperance enquired as soon as her
own eyes were well opened, what kind of night her chaperone had
passed. "Deliciously restful, and you, my dear child, how did you

"I never woke once. Oh! what a sun. Have you seen what a glorious day
it is?"

"It is the forerunner of good news," Jean cried out from the next

"Who knows?" said Esperance.

The telephone at her bedside rung. Marguerite picked up the receiver,
and announced dejectedly, "M. Meydieux wishes to speak to

"My godfather in Brussels!... You see, Jean, that I was right to
doubt your omen."

The young people burst out laughing.

"Really," continued Esperance, "I feel that he is going to spoil my
trip here. I don't like him, and his advice never coincides with that
of my father, whom I love so much."

Meantime M. Meydieux was getting impatient on the telephone.

"Tell him that I am not up yet, and ask him to lunch with us at
twelve-thirty. Then," she explained to Mlle. Frahender, who had just
come into her room, all powdered, all pinned and bonneted for the
morning, "he will not dare to bother me when everybody else is

Marguerite was still answering M. Meydieux's excited questions: "What!
at half-past nine not up, that is shameful! I must talk to her ... I
will come to lunch, oh yes! but above all I must talk to her."

Esperance was motioning violently to Marguerite to hang up the
receiver, but Mlle. Frahender objected to this lack of courtesy, so
the young girl giving way to her remonstrance yielded gracefully. She
even re-requested Marguerite, who knew her godfather's culinary
preferences, to order a lunch that he would like. Then she dressed in
haste to allow herself plenty of time to write to her family. They had
already exchanged telegrams, but she knew that her father would like
to have a long letter, giving him the minutes, so to speak, of
herself. A tender gratitude swelled up in her, and her eyes were wet
as she evoked the image of these two beloved beings reading her
letter, commenting upon it, and entering completely for those moments
into the life of their child. As soon as the letter was finished, she
asked Mlle. Frahender to go with her to post it, so that she could
herself speed it on its way to them. She had a strong desire to get
out-doors, even if only for a half-hour.

As they turned into the square, Esperance stopped, clutching her aged
friend by the arm. "Look there," she said.

There were two men side by side in deep conversation. Esperance had
instantly recognized Count Albert and her godfather. How did Adhemar
Meydieux happen to know the Secretary of the Legation?

They had just passed the post-office, so Esperance posted her letter
without being seen by either of them, and returned to the hotel. Lunch
time brought together all the guests except the godfather, who would
not enter until the exact minute, if he had to wait in the corridor....

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