We went up to the sixth floor of a house in the Rue Réamur, and on a plain-looking door read the words: “Massin, Manufacturer of Make-up Boxes.” I knocked and a little hunchback girl opened the door. I recognized Léontine’s sister, as she had come several times to the Conservatoire.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “what a surprise for us! Titine,” she then called out, “here is Mlle. Sarah!”
Léontine Massin came running out of the next room. She was a pretty girl, very gentle and calm in demeanor. She threw her arms round me, exclaiming:
“How glad I am to see you! And so you are coming out at the Comédie. I saw it in the paper.”
I blushed up to my ears at the idea of being mentioned in the paper.
“I am engaged at the Variétés,” she said, and then she talked away at such a rate that I was bewildered. Mme. Petit did not enter into all this, and tried in vain to separate us. She had replied by a nod and an indifferent “Thanks” to Léontine’s inquiries about her daughter’s health. Finally, when the young girl had finished saying all she had to say, Mme. Petit remarked:
“You must order your box; we have come here for that, you know.”
“Ah! then you will find my father in his workshop at the end of the passage, and if you are not very long I shall still be here. I am going to rehearsal at the Variétés later on.”
Mme. Petit was furious, for she did not like Léontine Massin.
“Don’t wait, mademoiselle,” she said, “it will be impossible for us to stay afterwards.”