“Well, you were a failure,” he said. “Why persist now in going in for the theater? You are thin and small, your face is rather nice close to, but ugly in the distance, and your voice does not carry!”
“Yes, my dear girl,” put in M. Meydieu, “your godfather is right. You had better marry the flour man who proposed, or that imbecile of a Spanish tanner who lost his brainless head for the sake of your pretty eyes. You will never do anything on the stage! You’d better marry!”
M. Guérard came and shook hands with me. He was a man of nearly sixty years of age, and Mme. Guérard was under thirty. He was melancholy, gentle, and shy; he had been awarded the distinction of the Legion of Honor, and he wore a long, shabby frock coat, had aristocratic gestures, and was private secretary to M. De la Tour Desmoulins, a deputy very much in favor. M. Guérard was a well of science, and I owe a great deal to his kindness.
Jeanne whispered to me:
“Sister’s godfather said when he came in that you looked as ugly as possible.” Jeanne always spoke of my godfather in this way. I pushed her away, and we sat down to table. All through the meal my one wish was to go back to the convent. I did not eat much, and directly after luncheon was so tired that I had to go to bed.
When once I was alone in my room between the sheets, with tired limbs, my head heavy and my heart oppressed with keeping back my sighs, I tried to consider my wretched situation, but sleep, the great restorer, came to the rescue and I was very soon slumbering peacefully. When I awoke I could not collect my thoughts at first. I wondered what time it was, and looked at my watch. It was just ten, and I had been asleep since three o’clock in the afternoon. I listened for a few minutes, but everything was silent in the house. On a table near my bed was a small tray on which was a cup of chocolate and a cake. A sheet of writing paper was placed upright against the cup. I trembled as I took it up, for I never received any letters. With great difficulty, by my night light, I managed to read the following words, written by Mme. Guérard:
“When you had gone to sleep the Duc de Morny sent word to your mother that Camille Doucet had just assured him that you were to be engaged for the Comédie Française. Do not worry any more, therefore, my dear child, but have faith in the future. Your petite dame.”
I pinched myself to make sure that I was really awake. I got up and rushed to the window. I looked out, and the sky was black. Yes, it was black to everyone else, but starry to me. The stars were shining, and I looked for my own special one, and chose the largest and brightest.
I went back toward my bed and amused myself with jumping on to it, holding my feet together. Each time I missed I laughed like a lunatic. I then drank my chocolate, and nearly choked myself devouring my cake.
Standing up on my bolster, I then made a long speech to the Virgin Mary at the head of my bed. I adored the Virgin Mary, and I explained to her my reasons for not being able to take the veil, in spite of my vocation. I tried to charm and persuade her, and I kissed her very gently on her foot, which was crushing the serpent. Then in the obscurity of the room I looked for my mother’s portrait. I could scarcely see this, but I threw kisses to it. I then took up the letter again from my petite dame and went to sleep with it in my mind. I do not remember what my dreams were that memorable night.