The Idol of Paris | Page 5

a window, went towards it with her daughter. The sun,
falling upon Esperance's blonde hair, turned it suddenly into an aureola
of gold. A murmur as of admiration broke from the spectators.
"Now there is someone," murmured a big fat woman with her hands
stuffed into white cotton gloves, "who may be sure of her future!"
The official raised his head, dazzled by the radiant vision. Forgetting
the lack of courtesy he had shown those who had preceded her, he
advanced towards Madame Darbois and, raising his black velvet cap,
"Do you wish to register for the entrance examinations?" he said to
Esperance.
She indicated her mother with an impatient movement of her little head.
"Yes," said Madame Darbois, "but I come after these other people. I
will wait my turn."
The man shrugged his shoulders with an air of assurance. "Please
follow me, ladies."
They rose. A sound of discontent was audible.
"Silence," cried the official in fury. "If I hear any more noise, I will
turn you all out."
Silence descended again. Many of these women had come a long way.
A little dressmaker had left her workshop to bring her daughter. A big
chambermaid had obtained the morning's leave from the bourgeois

house where she worked. Her daughter stood beside her, a beautiful
child of sixteen with colourless hair, impudent as a magpie. A music
teacher with well-worn boots had excused herself from her pupils. Her
two daughters flanked her to right and left, Parisian blossoms, pale and
anaemic. Both wished to pass the entrance examinations, the one as an
ingenue in comedy, the other in tragedy. They were neither comic nor
tragic, but modest and charming. There was also a small shop-keeper,
covered with jewels. She sat very rigid, far forward on the bench,
compressed into a terrible corset which forced her breast and back into
the humps of a punchinello; her legs hanging just short of the floor. Her
daughter paced up and down the long room like a colt snorting
impatiently to be put through its paces. She had the beauty of a classic
type, without spot or blemish, but her joints looked too heavy and her
neck was thrust without grace between her large shoulders. Anyone
who looked into the future would have been able to predict for her,
with some certainty, an honourable career as a tragedian in the
provinces.
Madame Darbois seated herself on the only chair in the little office.
When the official had read Esperance's birth certificate, he exclaimed,
"What! Mademoiselle is the daughter of the famous professor of
philosophy?'"
The two women looked at each other with amazement.
"Why, ladies," went on the official, radiantly, "my son is taking courses
with M. Darbois at the Sorbonne. What a pleasure it is to meet you--but
how does it happen that M. Darbois has allowed...?" His sentence died
in his throat. Madame Darbois had become very pale and her daughter's
nostrils quivered. The official finished with his papers, returned them
politely to Madame Darbois, and said in a low tone, "Have no anxiety,
Madame, the little lady has a wonderful future before her."
The two ladies thanked the official and made their way toward the door.
The group of young men bowed to the young girl, and she inclined her
head ever so slightly.
"Oh, la-la," screamed the big chamber-maid.

Esperance stopped on the threshold and looked directly at the woman,
who blushed, and said nothing more.
"Ho, ho," jeered one of the youths, "she settled you finely that time,
didn't she?"
An argument ensued instantly, but Esperance had gone her way,
trembling with happiness. Everything in life seemed opening for her.
For the first time she was aware of her own individuality; for the first
time she recognized in herself a force: would that force work for
creation or destruction? The child pressed her hands against her
fluttering heart.
M. Darbois was waiting at the window. At sight of him, Esperance
jumped from the carriage before it stopped. "What a little creature of
extremes!" mused the professor.
When she threw her arms about him to thank him, he loosed her hands
quickly. "Come, come, we haven't time to talk of that. We must sit
down at once. Marguerite is scolding because the dinner is going to be
spoiled."
To Esperance the dinner was of less than no importance, but she threw
aside her hat obediently, pulled forward her father's chair, and sat down
between the two beings whom she adored, but whom she was forced to
see suffer if she lived in her own joy--and that she could not, and would
not, hide.
CHAPTER III
The weeks before the long-expected day of the examination went by all
too slowly to suit Esperance. She had chosen, for the comedy test to
study