“And if you had been alone, monsieur,” I answered, “I should not have signed; so we are quits.”
I went away at once and hurried to my mother’s to tell her, for I knew this would be a great joy for her. Then, that very day, I set off with my petite dame to buy everything necessary for furnishing my dressing-room. The following day I went to the convent in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs to see my dear governess, Mlle. De Brabender. She had been ill, with acute rheumatism in all her limbs, for the last thirteen months. She had suffered so much that she looked like a different person. She was lying in her little white bed, a little white cap covering her hair, her big nose was drawn with pain, her washed-out eyes seemed to have no color in them. Her formidable mustache alone bristled up with constant spasms of pain. Besides all this she was so strangely altered that I wondered what had caused the change. I went nearer and, bending down, kissed her gently. I then gazed at her so inquisitively that she understood instinctively. With her eyes she signed to me to look on the table near her, and there in a glass I saw all my dear old friend’s teeth. I put the three roses I had brought her in the glass and, kissing her again, I asked her forgiveness for my impertinent curiosity. I left the convent with a very heavy heart, for the Mother Superior took me in the garden and told me that my beloved Mlle. De Brabender could not live much longer. I therefore went every day for a time to see my gentle old governess, but as soon as the rehearsals commenced at the Odéon my visits had to be less frequent.
One morning about seven o’clock, a message came from the convent to fetch me in great haste, and I was present at the dear woman’s death agony. Her face lighted up at the supreme moment with such a holy look that I suddenly longed to die. I kissed her hands which were holding the crucifix: they had already turned cold. I asked to be allowed to be there when she was placed in her coffin.
On arriving at the convent the next day, at the hour fixed, I found the Sisters in such a state of consternation that I was alarmed. What could have happened, I wondered? They pointed to the door of the cell without uttering a word. The nuns were standing round the bed, on which was the most extraordinary-looking being imaginable. My poor governess, lying rigid on her deathbed, had a man’s face. Her mustache had grown longer, and she had a beard of half an inch all round her chin. Her mustache and beard were sandy, while the long hair framing her face was white. Her mouth, without the support of the teeth, had sunk in so that her nose fell on the sandy mustache. It was like a terrible and ridiculous-looking mask, instead of the sweet face of my friend. It was the face of a man, while the little, delicate hands were those of a woman.
There was an awestruck expression in the eyes of the nuns in spite of the assurance of the nurse, who had declared to them that the body was that of a woman. They had dressed the poor dead body, but the poor little Sisters were trembling and crossing themselves all the time.
The day after this dismal ceremony I made my début at the Odéon in “Le Jeu de l’Amour et du Hasard.” I was not suitable for Marivand’s pieces, as they require a certain coquettishness and an affectation which were not then among my qualities. Then, too, I was rather too slight, so that I had no success at all. Chilly happened to be passing along the corridor, just as Duquesnel was talking to me and encouraging me. Chilly pointed to me and remarked:
“They are no good, these grand folks, there is not even any pluck about them.”
I was furious at the man’s insolence, and the blood rushed to my face, but I saw through my half-closed eyes Camille Doucet’s face, that face always so clean shaven and young looking, under his crown of white hair. I thought it was a vision of my mind, which was always on the alert, on account of the promise I had made. But no, it was he himself, and he came up to me.
“What a pretty voice you have,” he said. “Your second appearance will be such a pleasure to us!”
This man was always courteous, but truthful. This début of mine had not given him any pleasure, but he was counting on my next appearance, and he had spoken the truth. I had a pretty voice, and that was all that anyone could say.