He then took his departure, and I gazed at every one in perfect anguish.
The Conservatoire! What was it? What did it mean?
I went up to my governess, Mlle. de Brabender. Her lips were firmly pressed together, and she looked shocked, just as she did sometimes when my godfather told some story that she did not approve at table. My uncle, Félix Faure, was gazing at the floor in an absent-minded way; the notary had a spiteful look in his eyes, my aunt was holding forth in a very excited manner, and M. Meydieu kept shaking his head and muttering, “Perhaps—yes—who knows?—hum—hum!” Madame Guérard was very pale and sad, and she looked at me with infinite tenderness.
What could this Conservatoire be? The word uttered so carelessly seemed to have entirely disturbed the equanimity of all present. Each one of them seemed to me to have a different impression about it, but none looked pleased. Suddenly in the midst of the general embarrassment my godfather exclaimed brutally:
“She is too thin to make an actress.”
“I won’t be an actress!” I exclaimed.
“You don’t know what an actress is,” said my aunt.
“Oh yes, I do. Rachel is an actress.”
“You know Rachel?” asked mamma, getting up.
“Oh yes; she came to the convent once to see little Adèle Sarony. She went all over the convent and into the garden, and she had to sit down because she could not get her breath. They fetched her something to bring her round, and she was so pale, oh, so pale. I was very sorry for her, and Sister St. Appoline told me what she did was killing her, for she was an actress; and so I won’t be an actress—I won’t!”