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.
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 a scene from
Les Femmes Savantes (the role of “Henriette"),
and in tragedy a scene from Iphygenia.
Adhemar Meydieux often came to inquire about his goddaughter’s
studies. He wished to hear her recite, to give
her advice; but Esperance refused energetically, still
remembering his former opposition against him.
She would let no one hear her recitations, but her
mother. Madame Darbois put all her heart into
her efforts to help her daughter. Every morning
she went through her work with Esperance. To
her the role of “Henriette” was
inexplicable. She consulted her husband, who
replied, “‘Henriette’ is a
little philosopheress with plenty of sense. Esperance
is right to have chosen this scene from Les Femmes
Savantes. Moliere’s genius has never
exhibited finer raillery than in this play.”
And he enlarged upon the psychology of “Henriette’s”
character until Madame Darbois realized with surprise
that her daughter was completely in accord with the
ideas laid down by her father as to the interpretation
of this role. Esperance was so young it seemed
impossible that she could yet understand all the double
subtleties....
Esperance had taken her first communion when she was
eleven, and after her religious studies ended, she
had thought of nothing but poetry, and had even tried
to compose some verses. Her father had encouraged
her, and procured her a professor of literature.
From that time the child had given herself completely
to the art of the drama, learning by heart and reciting
aloud the most beautiful parts of French literature.
Her parents, listening with pleasure to her recitations
of Ronsard or Victor Hugo, little guessing that the
child was already dreaming of the theatre. Often
since then, Madame Darbois had reproached herself
for having foreseen so little, but her husband, whose
wisdom recognized the uselessness of vain regrets,
would calm her, saying with a shake of his head, “You
can prevent nothing, my dear wife, destiny is a force
against which all is impotent! We can but remove
the stumbling-blocks from the path which Esperance
must follow. We must be patient!”
At last the day arrived! Never had the young
girl been more charming. Francois Darbois had
been working arduously on the correction of a book
he was about to publish, when he saw her coming into
his library. He turned towards her and, regarding
her there in the doorway, seemed to see the archangel
of victory—such radiance emanated from this
frail little body.
