“No, she does not care for the stage, but she does not want to marry, and consequently she will have no money, as her father left her a hundred thousand francs, which she can only have on her wedding-day. Her mother, therefore, wants her to have some profession, for Mme. Bernhardt only has an annuity, a fairly good one, but it is only an annuity, and so she will not be able to leave her daughters anything. On that account she wants Sarah to become independent. Sarah would like to enter a convent.” “But that is not an independent career, my child,” said M. Auber, slowly. “How old is she?” he asked. “Fourteen and a half,” replied Mme. Guérard. “No,” I exclaimed, “I am nearly fifteen.” The kind old man smiled. “In twenty years from now,” he said, “you will insist less about the exact figures,” and, evidently thinking the visit had lasted long enough, he rose. “It appears,” he said to Mme. Guérard, “that this little girl’s mother is very beautiful?” “Oh, very beautiful!” she replied. “You will please express my regret to her that I have not seen her, and my thanks for having so thoughtfully sent you.” He thereupon kissed Mme. Guérard’s hand, and she colored slightly. This conversation remained engraved on my mind. I remember every word of it, every movement and every gesture of M. Auber’s, for this little man, so charming and so gentle, held my future in his transparent-looking hand. He opened the door for us and, touching me on my shoulder, said: “Come, courage, little girl. Believe me, you will thank your mother some day for driving you to it. Don’t look so sad; life is well worth beginning, seriously, but gayly.” I stammered out a few words of thanks, and, just as I was making my exit, a fine-looking woman knocked against me. She was heavy and extremely bustling, though, and M. Auber bent his head toward me and said quietly: “Above all things don’t let yourself get stout like this singer. Stoutness is the enemy of a woman and of an _artiste_.” The manservant was now holding the door open for us, and, as M. Auber returned to his visitor, I heard him say: “Well, ... most ideal of women....” I went away rather astounded, and did not say a word in the carriage. Mme. Guérard told my mother about our interview, but the latter did not even let her finish, and only said: “Good, good; thank you.”