“Then you think that you are an artist?”
His remark cut me to the quick, but I felt that I must endure everything. I experienced, nevertheless, a great temptation to cry.
My assurance reasserted itself.
“I have never thought that,” I replied. “But I should like to become an artist, some day, if I am able.”
“And that is why you are anxious to see the great French tragedienne play?”
“Yes, I suppose so. But I was thinking only of my longing to see her, and it was on that account that I came here.”
“Very well, I am going to give you seats for yourself and your mother.”
“Oh, thank you, sir.”
The manager drew a card from his pocket, wrote something on it and handed it to me. It was a permit for us to see Sarah Bernhardt play!
I looked at the card and looked at the manager. He smiled and I smiled. He extended his hand. I extended both of mine. While he held my hands he said to me: