Mamma stroked my hair, of which she was very proud.
“Yes, it would make me unhappy. You know very well that after your sister, I love you better than anyone else in the world.”
She said this very slowly in a gentle voice. It was like the sound of a little waterfall as it flows down, babbling and clear, from the mountain, dragging with it the gravel, and gradually increasing in volume, with the thawed snow, until it sweeps along rocks and trees in its course. This was the effect my mother’s clear, drawling voice had upon me at that moment. I rushed back impulsively to the others, who were all speechless at this unexpected and spontaneous burst of confidence. I went from one to the other, explaining my decision, and giving reasons which were certainly no reasons at all. I did my utmost to get someone to support me in the matter. Finally the Duc de Morny was bored, and rose to go.
“Do you know what you ought to do with this child?” he said. “You ought to send her to the Conservatoire.” He then patted my cheek, kissed my aunt’s hand, and bowed to all the others. As he bent over my mother’s hand, I heard him say to her: “You would have made a bad diplomatist, but take my advice, and send her to the Conservatoire.”
He then took his departure and I gazed at everyone in perfect anguish.
The Conservatoire! What was it? What did it mean?
I went up to my governess, Mlle. De Brabender. Her lips were firmly pressed together, and she looked shocked, just as she did sometimes when my godfather told some story that she did not approve of, at table. My uncle, Félix Faure, was looking at the floor in an absent-minded way; the notary had a spiteful look in his eyes, my aunt was holding forth in a very excited manner, and M. Meydieu kept shaking his head and muttering: “Perhaps ... yes.... Who knows?... Hum ... hum...!” Mme. Guérard was very pale and sad, and she looked at me with infinite tenderness.
What could be this Conservatoire? The word uttered so carelessly seemed to have entirely disturbed the equanimity of all present. Each one of them seemed to me to have a different impression about it, but none looked pleased. Suddenly in the midst of the general embarrassment my godfather exclaimed brutally:
“She is too thin to make an actress.”
“I won’t be an actress!” I exclaimed.