He would then rehearse, word by word and gesture by gesture, with the inflexions and movements required. This got on my nerves in the most painful way, and was a cruel blow dealt at the solidarity of my artistic pride. I often took this poor Tallien aside and tried to urge him on to rebellion, but it was all in vain. He was tall, and his arms were too long and his eyes tired, his nose was weary with having grown too long, and it sank over his lips with heartrending dejection. His forehead was covered with thick hair, and his chin seemed to be running away in a hurry from this ill-built face. A great kindliness was diffused all over his being, and this kindliness was just himself. Everyone was therefore infinitely fond of him. The 26th of January, 1872, was an artistic fête for the Odéon. The _Tout-Paris_ of first nights and all youthful Paris were to meet in the large, solemn, dusty theater. Ah, what a splendid, stirring performance it was! What a triumph for Geffroy, pale, sinister, and severe looking in his black costume as _Don Salluste_! Mélingue rather disappointed the public as _Don César de Bazan_, and the public was in the wrong.... The rôle of _Don César de Bazan_ is a treacherously good rôle, which always tempts _artistes_ by the brilliancy of the first act; but the fourth act, which belongs entirely to him, is distressingly heavy and useless. It might be taken out of the piece, just like a periwinkle out of its shell, and the piece would be none the less clear and complete. This 26th of January rent asunder, though, for me, the thin veil which still made my future hazy, and I felt that I was destined for celebrity. Until that day I had remained the students’ little Fairy. I became then the Elect of the Public. Breathless, dazed, and yet delighted by my success, I did not know to whom to reply, in the ever-changing stream of men and women admirers. All at once, I saw the crowd separating and forming two lines, and I caught a glimpse of Victor Hugo and Girardin coming toward me. In a second all the stupid ideas I had had about this immense genius flashed across me. I remembered my first interview, when I had been stiff and barely polite to this kind, indulgent man. At that moment, when all my life was opening its wings, I should have liked to cry out to him my repentance, and to tell him of my devout gratitude. Before I could speak, though, he was down on his knee, and, raising my two hands to his lips, he murmured: “Thank you! Thank you!” And so it was he who said thank you. He, the great Victor Hugo, whose mind was so fine, whose universal genius filled the world! He, whose generous hands flung pardons like gems to all his insulters. Ah, how small I felt, how ashamed and yet how happy! He then rose, shook the hands that were held out to him, finding for everyone the right word.