The Idol of Paris | Page 4

and I am quite tall for my
age. Oh! yes, I shall be tall." She came very close to the mirror and
examined herself closely, hypnotizing herself little by little. She beheld
herself under a million different aspects. Her whole life seemed passing
before her, shadowy figures came and went--one of them, the most
persistent, seemed to keep stretching towards her long appealing arms.
She shivered, recoiled abruptly, and passing her hand across her
forehead, dispelled the dizzy visions that were gathering there.
When her mother returned she found her quietly reading Victor Hugo,
studying "Dona Sol" in Hernani. She had not heard the opening of the
door, and she started at finding her mother close beside her.
"You see, I am not going to lose any time," she said, closing the book.
"Ah! mama, how happy I am, how happy!"
"Quick," said her mother, her finger to her lips. "Your father is waiting
for us, ready to go out."
Esperance seized her hat and coat quickly and ran to join her father. He
was sitting as if thinking, his head resting in his hands. She understood
the struggle between love and reason in his soul, and her upright little
soul suffered with his. Bending gently beside him she murmured, "Do
not be unhappy, papa. You know that I can never suffer as long as I
have you two. If I am quite mistaken, if life doesn't bring me any of the
things that I expect, I shall find comfort in your love."
François Darbois raised his head and looked deep into the lovely eyes,
"God keep you, my little daughter!"
Next morning Esperance was ready to go to the Conservatoire long
before the appointed hour. M. Darbois was already in his study with
one of his pupils, so she ran to her mother's room and found her busy
with some papers.
"You have my birth certificate?"
"Yes, yes."

"And papa's written consent?"
"Yes, yes," sighed Madame Darbois.
"He hesitated to give it to you?"
"Oh! no, you know your father! His word is sacred, but it cost him a
great deal. My dear little girl, never let him regret it."
Esperance put her finger across her mother's lips. "Mama, you know
that I am honest and honourable, how can I help it when I am the child
of two darlings as good as you and papa? My longing for the theatre is
stronger than I can tell. I believe that if papa had refused his permission,
it would have made me unhappy and that I should have fallen ill and
pined away. You remember how, about a year ago, I almost died of
anaemia and consumption. Really, mother dear, my illness was simply
caused by my overstrung nerves. I had often heard papa express his
disapproval of the theatre; and you, you remember, said one day, in
reference to the suicide of a well-known actress, 'Ah, her poor mother,
God keep me from seeing my daughter on the stage!'"
Madame Darbois was silent for a moment; then two tears rolled quietly
from beneath her eyelids and a little sob escaped her.
"Ah! mama, mama," cried Esperance, "have pity, don't let me see you
suffer so. I feared it; I did not want to be sure of it. I am an ungrateful
daughter. You love me so much! You have indulged me so! I ought to
give in. I can not, and your grief will kill me. I suffered so yesterday,
out driving, feeling papa so far away. I kept feeling as if he were
holding himself aloof in an effort to forget, and now you are crying....
Mama, it is terrible! I must make myself give you back your
happiness--at least your peace of mind. Alas!--I can not give you back
your happiness, for I think that I shall die if I cannot have my way."
Madame Darbois trembled. She was familiar with her daughter's
nervous, high-strung temperament. In a tone of more authority than
Esperance had ever heard her use, "Come, child, be quick, we are
losing time," she said, "I have all the necessary papers, come."

They found at the Conservatoire several women, who had arrived
before them, waiting to have their daughters entered for the course.
Four youths were standing in a separate group, staring at the young
girls beside their mothers. In a corner of the room was a little office,
where the official, charged with receiving applications, was ensconced.
He was a man of fifty, gruff, jaundiced from liver trouble, looking
down superciliously at the girls whose names he had just received.
When Madame Darbois entered with Esperance, the distinguished
manner of the two ladies caused a little stir. The group of young men
drew nearer. Madame Darbois looked about, and seeing an empty
bench near