M. Thierry received me very kindly and made a little nonsensical speech. He then unfolded a paper, which he handed to Mme. Guérard, asking her to look at it and then to sign it. This paper was my engagement, and my petite dame explained that she was not my mother.
“Ah!” said M. Thierry, getting up, “then will you take it with you and have it signed by mademoiselle’s mother?”
He then took my hand. I felt an instinctive horror at the touch of his, for it was flabby, and there was no life or sincerity in its grasp. I quickly took mine away and looked at him. He was plain, with a red face, and eyes that avoided one’s gaze. As I was going away I met Coquelin, who, hearing I was there, had waited to see me. He had made his début a year before with great success.
“Well, it’s settled, then?” he said gayly.
I showed him the engagement and shook hands with him. I went quickly down the stairs, and just as I was leaving the theater, found myself in the midst of a group in the doorway.
“Are you satisfied?” asked a gentle voice, which I recognized as M. Doucet’s.
“Oh, yes, monsieur, thank you so much,” I answered.
“But my dear child, I have nothing to do with it,” he said.
“Your competition was not at all good, but nevertheless we count on you,” put in M. Régnier, and then turning to Camille Doucet he asked: “What do you think, your Excellency?”
“I think that this child will be a very great artiste,” he replied.