A competition was opened for the fish costume. I went to an endless amount of trouble cutting out scales from cardboard that I had painted, and sewing them together afterwards. I made some enormous gills, which were to be glued on to César. My costume was not chosen; it was passed over for that of a stupid, big girl whose name I cannot remember. She had made a huge tail of kid and a mask with big eyes and gills, but there were no scales, and we should have to see César’s shaggy coat. I nevertheless turned my attention to Louise Buguet’s costume and worked at it with two of the lay sisters, Sister St. Cécile and Sister St. Jeanne, who had charge of the linen room.
At the rehearsals not a word could be extorted from the Angel Raphael. She stood there stupefied on the little platform, tears dimming her beautiful eyes. She brought the whole play to a standstill, and kept appealing to me in a weeping voice. I prompted her, and, getting up, rushed to her, kissed her, and whispered her whole speech to her. I was beginning to be “in it” myself at last.
Finally, two days before the great solemnity, there was a dress rehearsal. The angel looked lovely, but, immediately on entering, she sank down on a bench, sobbing out in an imploring voice:
“Oh no; I shall never be able to do it, never!”
“Quite true, she never will be able to,” sighed Mother St. Sophie.
Forgetting for the moment my little friend’s grief, and wild with joy, pride, and assurance, I ran up to the platform and bounded on to the form on which the Angel Raphael had sunk down weeping.
“Oh, Mother, I know her part. Shall I take her place for the rehearsal?”
“Yes, yes!” exclaimed voices from all sides.
“Oh yes, you know it so well,” said Louise Buguet, and she wanted to put her band on my head.
“No, let me rehearse as I am, first,” I answered.