I asked M. Camille Doucet, director of the Beaux-Arts, to allow me to recite something to him, and, as my mother always refused to accompany me, Mme. Guérard went with me. My little sister, Régina, begged me to take her, and very unwisely I consented. We had not been in the director’s office more than five minutes before my sister, who was only six years old, began to climb on the furniture. She jumped on a stool, and finally sat down on the floor, pulling the paper basket, which was under the desk, toward her, and proceeded to spread all the torn papers which it contained about the room. On seeing this, Camille Doucet mildly observed that she was not a very good little girl. My sister, with her head in the basket, answered in her husky voice: “If you bother me, monsieur, I shall tell everyone that you are there to give out holy water that is poison—my aunt says so.” My face turned purple with shame, and I stammered out: “Please do not believe that, M. Doucet, my little sister is telling an untruth.” Régina sprang to her feet and, clenching her fists, rushed at me like a little fury: “Aunt Rosine never said that?” she exclaimed. “You are telling the untruth ... why, she said it to M. De Morny, and he answered....” I had forgotten this, and I have forgotten what the Duc de Morny answered, but, beside myself with anger, I put my hand over my sister’s mouth and took her quickly away. She howled like a wildcat, and we rushed like a hurricane through the waiting room which was full of people. I then gave way to one of those violent fits of temper to which I had been subject in my childhood. I sprang into the first cab that passed the door, and, when once in the cab, struck my sister with such fury that Mme. Guérard was alarmed, and protected her with her own body, receiving all the blows I gave with my head, arms, and feet, for in my anger, rage, and shame I flung myself about to right and left. My rage was all the more profound from the fact that I was very fond of Camille Doucet. He was gentle and charming, affable and kind-hearted. He had refused my aunt something she had asked for, and, unaccustomed to being refused anything, she had a spite against him. This had nothing to do with me, though, and I wondered what Camille Doucet would think. And then, too, I had not asked him about the Vaudeville.