As a matter of fact, in the anteroom there was a noise of voices rising higher and higher. Irritated, I rushed out, my palette in my hand, resolved to make the intruder flee. But just at the moment when I opened the door of my studio, a tall man came so close to me that I drew back, and he came into my hall. His eyes were clear and piercing, his hair silvery white, and his beard carefully trimmed. He made his excuses very politely, admired my paintings, my sculpture, my hall—and this while I was in complete ignorance of his name. When at the end of ten minutes I begged him to sit down and tell me to what I owed the pleasure of his visit, he replied in a stilted voice with a strong accent:
“I am Mr. Jarrett, the impresario. I can make your fortune. Will you come to America?”
“Never!” I exclaimed firmly. “Never!”
“Oh, well, don’t get angry! Here is my address—don’t lose it.” Then, at the moment he took leave, he said:
“Ah! you are going to London with the Comédie Française. Would you like to earn a lot of money in London?”
“Yes. How?”
“By playing in drawing-rooms. I can make you a small fortune.”
“Oh, I would be pleased to do that—that is, if I go to London, for I have not yet decided.”
“Then will you sign a little contract to which we will add an additional clause?”
And I signed a contract with this man, who inspired me with confidence at first sight—a confidence which he never betrayed.