“My child,” remarked the worthy but stupid manager, “you are not at all suitable for the stage!” I resented this, but he continued: “Oh, no, not at all.” And, as the door then opened, he added, pointing to the newcomer, “Here is M. De Chilly, who was also listening to you, and he will say just the same as I say.” M. De Chilly nodded and shrugged his shoulders. “Lambert Thiboust is mad,” he remarked, “no one ever saw such a thin shepherdess!” He then rang the bell and told the boy to fetch Mlle. Laurence Gérard. I understood and, without taking leave of the two boors, I left the room. My heart was heavy, though, as I went back to the _foyer_, where I had left my hat. I found Laurence Gérard there, but she was fetched away the next moment. I was standing near her and, as I looked in the glass, I was struck by the contrast between us. She was plump, with a wide face, magnificent black eyes, her nose was rather _canaille_, her mouth heavy, and there was a very ordinary look about her generally. I was fair, slight, and frail-looking, like a reed, with a long, pale face, blue eyes, a rather sad mouth, and a general look of distinction. This hasty vision consoled me for my failure, and then, too, I felt that this Faille was a nonentity, and that De Chilly was common. Five days later Mlle. Debay was well again and took her rôle as usual. I was destined to meet with both of these men again later on in my life. Chilly, soon after, as manager at the Odéon; and Faille, twenty years later, in such a wretched situation that the tears came to my eyes when he appeared before me and begged me to play for his benefit. “I beseech you,” said the poor man. “You will be the only attraction at this performance, and I have only you to count on for the receipts.” I shook hands with him. I do not know whether he remembered our first interview, but I remembered it well, and could only hope that he did not. Before I would accept the engagement at the Porte Saint Martin, I wrote to Camille Doucet. The following day I received a letter asking me to go to the offices of the Ministry. It was not without some emotion that I went to see this kind man. He was standing up waiting for me when I was ushered into the room. He held out his hands to me and drew me gently toward him. “Oh, what a terrible child!” he said, giving me a chair. “Come now, you must be calmer. It will never do to waste all these admirable gifts in voyages, escapades, and boxing people’s ears!” I was deeply moved by his kindness, and my eyes were full of regret as I looked at him. “Now, don’t cry, my dear child, don’t cry. Let us try and find out how we are to make up for all this folly.” He was quiet for a moment, and then, opening a drawer, he took out a letter. “Here is something which will perhaps save us,” he said. It was a letter from Duquesnel, who had just been appointed manager at the Odéon Theater, together with Chilly.