“Oh, yes, I have passed,” I answered, and I could not resist stopping a minute in order to enjoy the astonishment of the hall-porter family. I then hurried on, but on reaching the courtyard came to a dead stand, anger and grief taking possession of me, for there I beheld my _petite dame_, her two hands forming a trumpet, her head thrown back, shouting to my mother who was leaning out of the window: “Yes, yes, she has passed!” I gave her a thump with my clenched hand and began to cry with rage, for I had prepared a little story for my mother, ending up with the joyful surprise. I had intended putting on a very sad look on arriving at the door, and pretending to be broken-hearted and ashamed. I felt sure she would say: “Oh, I am not surprised, my poor child, you are so foolish!” and then I should have thrown my arms round her neck and said: “It isn’t true, it isn’t true; I have passed!” I had pictured to myself her face brightening up, and then old Marguerite and my godfather laughing heartily, and my sisters dancing with joy, and here was Mme. Guérard sounding her trumpet and spoiling all my effects that I had prepared so well. I must say that the kind woman continued as long as she lived (that is the greater part of my life) spoiling all my effects. It was all in vain that I made scenes; she could not help herself. Whenever I told a good story and wanted it to be very effective, she would invariably burst into fits of laughter before the end of it. If I started on a story with a very lamentable ending, which was to be a surprise, she would sigh, roll her eyes, and murmur: “Oh, dear! oh, dear!” so that I always missed the effect I was counting on. Still more often, when anything was being guessed and I asked people for the answer, she would reply before anyone else, as she was always in my confidence, and I had perhaps told her the answer a second before. All this used to exasperate me to such a degree that, before beginning a story or a game, I used to ask her to go out of the room, and she would get up and go, laughing at the idea of the blunder she would make if there. Furious, then, on this occasion, and abusing Mme. Guérard, I went upstairs to my mother, whom I found at the open door. She kissed me affectionately, and on seeing my sulky face asked if I was not satisfied. “Yes,” I replied, “but I am furious with Guérard. Be nice, mamma, and pretend you don’t know. Shut the door, and I will ring.” She did this, and I rang the bell. Marguerite opened the door, and my mother came and pretended to be astonished. My sisters, too, arrived, and my godfather and my aunt. When I kissed my mother, exclaiming, “I have passed!” everyone shouted with joy, and I was gay again. I had made my effect anyhow. It was “the career” taking possession of me unawares.