Thus ended the second family council over the future of Sarah, and the problem was not yet solved.
After this Sarah’s existence in her mother’s house became a torment. She seldom saw her parent; and when she did, the latter hardly looked at her. She took her meals with Régine and Mlle. de Brabender in the nursery. She abandoned art, and spent her days looking after her baby sister in the Champs Elysées and on the quais of the Seine.
She still attended the theatre as often as she could, and became a faithful devotee of the Comédie. Often she would venture as far afield as the Châtelet, or the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle, to witness plays at the Gymnase.
One evening she returned, after a solitary evening at the theatre and, finding the salon empty, began to recite one of the parts she had seen. She had seen the play so often that the rôle of the heroine was practically graven on her memory. Believing herself entirely alone, she went right through with the piece, finishing with a dramatic flourish at the place where the heroine—I forget the play—was supposed to stab herself to death.
There was a hearty “Bravo, bravo!” and the Duc de Morny rose from a chair in which he had been sitting behind a screen.
The Duke went out and called to Julie and Rosine, and, when the two sisters entered, he asked the child to play the part again. At first bashful, Sarah eventually plucked up courage and finally did as she was asked. The Duke was much affected.
“That memory and that voice must not be lost!” he cried. “Sarah shall enter the Conservatoire!”
“She has no sense, but she is not bad at reciting,” agreed Julie, scenting a happy compromise.
The Conservatoire? Sarah began to worry. What was this new horror to which they were so easily condemning her?
“What is it, the Conservatoire?” she asked, hesitating.