Sardou knocked. “Let me know, my dear child,
when you are ready.”
The door opened almost immediately, and the young
girl rushed joyfully out into the little room.
She stopped short upon seeing three strangers, and
her eyes sought Sardou’s, full of startled surprise.
“I have taken the liberty of disturbing you,
little friend.... I want to present you to the
Princess de Bernecourt.”
Esperance curtsied with pretty grace. The Minister-Prince
complimented her graciously; he was a dilettante,
who could express himself most charmingly, in well
chosen, artistic terms.
“Your Excellency overcomes me,” said the
young actress. “I shall do my best to deserve
your kindness.”
With a quick movement she re-adjusted her tulle scarf
on her shoulders and blushed a little. The Minister
turned and saw Albert Styvens standing with nervous
interest—gazing like one bewitched at the
enchanting maiden.
“Let me present to you Count Albert Styvens.”
Esperance inclined her head a little and drew instinctively
nearer to Mlle. Frahender.
The Count had not moved. The Prince led him away
as soon as he had made his adieux to the young girl
and the elder lady.
“Are you ill or insane?” he asked his
Secretary.
“Insane, yes; I think I must be going insane,”
murmured the young man in a choking voice.
The play was in four acts, there were still two to
come. The audience seemed to watch in a delirium
of delight, and when the last curtain dropped, they
called Esperance back eight times, and demanded the
author.
In spite of all the talent displayed by Sardou as
author, there was much enthusiasm and an unconscious
gratitude in him as the discoverer of a new sensation....
No comet acclaimed by astronomers as capable of doubling
the harvest would have moved the populace as did the
description in all the papers of this new star in Paris.
The family found itself back on the Boulevard Raspail.
The Darbois had not cared to leave their box.
After every act, Mlle. Frahender carried their
comments and tender messages to Esperance. Francois
Darbois had great difficulty in constraining himself
to remain in the noisy vestibule. He suffered
too acutely at seeing his daughter, that pure and
delicate child, the focus of every lorgnette, the subject
of every conversation. Several phrases he had
overheard from a group of men had brought him to his
feet in a frenzy; then he fell back in his place like
one stunned. Nevertheless there had not been one
offensive word. It was all praise.
The philosopher held his daughter in his arms, pressed
close against his heart, and tears ran down his cheeks.
“It is the first time, and shall be the last,
that I wish to see you on the stage, dear little daughter.
It is too painful for me, and what is worst of all
I fear it will take you away from me.”
