The Idol of Paris | Page 8

as a lawyer, perhaps. But--"
"But, father dear, he will make a fine lawyer; he will have an influence
in the theatre that will be more direct, more beneficial, more
far-reaching, than at the Bar. Oh! but yes! You remember, don't you,
mama, how disturbed you were by M. Dubare's plea on behalf of the
assassin of Jeanne Verdier? Well, is it not noble to defend the poets,
and introduce to the public all the new scientific and political ideas?"
"Often wrong ideas," remarked Darbois.
"That is perhaps true, but what of it? Have you not said a thousand
times that discussion is the necessary soil for the development of new
ideas?"
The professor of philosophy looked at his daughter, realizing that every
word he had spoken in her hearing, all the seed that he had cast to the
wind, had taken root in her young mind.
"But," inquired Madame Darbois, "where did you see M. Perliez?"
The professor began to smile. "Outside the Conservatoire. Perliez and I
ran into each other, both impelled by the same extreme anxiety towards
the scene of our sacrifice. It is not really necessary to consult all the
philosophical authorities on this subject of inanition of will," he added,
wearily.
"Oh! chocolate custard," cried out Esperance with rapture, "Marguerite
is giving us a treat."

"Yes, Mademoiselle, I knew very well...."
A ring at the front door bell cut short her words. They listened silently,
and heard the door open, and someone come in. Then the maid entered
with a card.
François Darbois rose at once. "I will see him in the salon," he said.
He handed the card to his wife and went to meet his visitor. Esperance
leaned towards her mother and read with her the celebrated name,
"Victorien Sardou." Together they questioned the import of this visit,
without being able to find any satisfactory explanation.
When François entered the salon, Sardou was standing, his hands
clasped behind him, examining through half-closed eyes a delicate
pastel, signed Chaplain--a portrait of Madame Darbois at twenty. At the
professor's entry, he turned round and exclaimed with the engaging
friendliness that was one of his special charms, "What a very pretty
thing, and what superb colour!"
Then advancing, "It is to M. François Darbois that I have the pleasure
of speaking, is it not?"
He had not missed the formality in the surprise evinced by the
professor as, without speaking, the professor bowed him towards a
chair.
"Let me say to begin with, my dear professor, that I am one of your
most fervent followers. Your last book, Philosophy is not Indifference,
is, in my opinion, a work of real beauty. Your doctrine does not
discourage youth, and after reading your book, I decided to send my
sons to your lectures."
François Darbois thanked the great author. The ice was broken. They
discussed Plato, Aristotle, Montaigne, Schaupenhauer, etc. Victorien
Sardou heard the clock strike; he had lunched hastily and had to be
back at the Conservatoire by two o'clock, as the jury still had to hear
eleven pupils. He began laughing and talking very fast, in his habitual

manner: "I must tell you, however, why I have come; your daughter,
who passed her examination this morning, is very excellent. She has
the making of a real artist; the voice, the smile, the grace, the
distinction, the manner, the rhythm. This child of fifteen has every gift!
I am now arranging a play for the Vaudeville. The principal rôle is that
of a very young girl. Just at present there are only well-worn
professionals in the theatre."
He rose. "Will you trust your daughter to me? I promise her a good part,
an engagement only for my play, and I assure you of her success."
M. Darbois, in his amazement and in spite of the impatience of the
academician, withheld his answer. "Pray permit me," he said, touching
the bell, "to send for my daughter. It is with great anxiety, I admit to
you, that I have given her permission to follow a theatrical career, so
now I must consult her, while still trying to advise."
Then to the maid, "Ask Madame and Mademoiselle to come here."
Sardou came up to the professor and pressed his hand gratefully. "You
are consistent with your principles. I congratulate you; that is very
rare," he said.
The two ladies came in.
"Ah," he continued, glancing toward the pastel, after he had greeted
Madame Darbois, "Here is the model of this beautiful portrait."
The gracious lady flushed, a little embarrassed, but flattered. After the
introduction, Sardou repeated his proposal to Esperance, who, with
visible excitement, looked questioningly at her father.
"It seems to me," said Madame Darbois, timidly, "that this is rather
premature. Do you feel able to play so soon in a