“I shall look for a house or an apartment near
by.”
The adieux were tender on both sides. Esperance
was so sensitive to the charm of her mother-in-law
that it made her seem devoted to her fiancee....
The news of the engagement of Esperance and the Count
Styvens was known all over Paris. Letters came
to the farm of Penhouet, done up in packets.
Many expressed to the philosopher and his wife their
joy at hearing that their daughter had decided to
leave a career so ... so very ... in which ... in
fact that...! Every absurd prejudice, so puritanly
ingrained in the minds of most middle class divisions
and sections and even amongst the more cultivated,
was endlessly repeated upon with the usual banalities
in the large correspondence of their friends and others.
Poor actors, so misunderstood! so misrepresented!
The philosopher showed all the letters to Esperance,
who shrugged her shoulders, astonished to find there
was so much prejudice in the world against her beloved
calling. One letter, however, she took quite
seriously. It was written by the most eminent
of all the Academicians. One sentence in the
epistle wounded the poor child very deeply. “Now
I shall be able to go about your election with more
confidence and security. Dare I admit to you,
my dear Professor, that the only obstacle I encountered,
and which seemed to me insurmountable, was the career
chosen by that lovely child, your daughter, whose talent
we all admire so much! Now I can start my campaign,
and I am very sure, my dear Darbois, of achieving
our ambition without much difficulty. Therefore,
perhaps, I shall not altogether deserve your thanks.”
What Genevieve had said was patently true; her father
had sacrificed his dearest hope for her, and he had
done it so all unostentatiously.... Ah! how she
loved her father, who was unlike other men! He
was standing there before her, smiling, a little scornful
of all these little souls. And as he handed her
another letter—“No, father dear, no,
I beg you. Pardon me the wrong that I have been
doing you; I admire you and I love you, dear papa,
but leave me with the noble feeling of your supreme
kindness; I would rather not know any more of the little
meannesses of the world.”
She climbed on her father’s knees and covered
his forehead with kisses.
“Look,” said Mme. Darbois, holding
up a letter “eight pages from your godfather.”
Esperance jumped up laughing, “That I certainly
shall not read.”
“I am going to write to the Countess that I
give up my art....” And swift as a shadow
she was gone.
The philosopher sat hesitating, his expression troubled.
Had he the right to compel this sacrifice, knowing,
realizing, as he did, that his child had based all
the happiness of her life on the career she was now
voluntarily giving up for his sake? Germaine looked
at him questioningly.
