“I can’t let go of everybody,” she cried. So she telegraphed and wrote urgently to Mrs. Gainsborough, begging her to join her in Paris. While she was waiting for a reply, she discussed projects for the future with her agent, who, when he found that she had some money, was anxious for her to invest a certain amount in the necessary réclame and appear at the Folies Bergères.
“But I don’t want to make a success by singing French songs with an English accent,” Sylvia protested. “I’d as soon make a success by singing without a roof to my mouth. You discouraged me from doing something I really wanted to do. All I want now is an excuse for roaming.”
“What about a tour in Spain?” the agent suggested. “I can’t get you more than ten francs a night, though, if you only want to sing. Still, Spain’s much cheaper than America.”
“Mon cher ami, j’ai besoin du travail pour me distraire. Ten francs is the wage of a slave, but pocket-money, if one is not a slave.”
“Vous avez de la veine, vous.”
“Vraiment?”
“Mais oui.”
“Peut-être quelqu’un m’a plaqué.”
He tried to look grave and sympathetic.
“Salaud,” she mocked. “Crois-tu que je t’en dirais. Bigre! je creverais plutôt.”