I looked at the chairman, and saw that it was M. Auber. I had forgotten that he was Director of the Conservatoire, just as I had forgotten everything else. I at once made my bow, and began:
“Deux pigeons s’aimaient d’amour tendre
L’un d’eux s’ennuyant....”
A low, grumbling sound was heard, and then a ventriloquist muttered:
“It isn’t an elocution class here. What an idea to come here reciting fables!”
It was Beauvallet, the thundering tragedian of the Comédie Française. I stopped short, my heart beating wildly.
“Go on, my child,” said a man with silvery hair. This was Provost.
“Yes, it won’t be as long as a scene from a play,” exclaimed Augustine Brohan, the one woman present.
I began again:
“Deux pigeons s’aimaient d’amour tendre