All my fine dreams had come to nothing. And it was this little monster, who looked as fair and as white as a seraph, who had just shattered my hopes. Huddled up in the cab, an expression of fear on her self-willed face, and her thin lips compressed, she was gazing at me under her long lashes with half-closed eyes. On reaching home I told my mother all that had happened, and she declared that my little sister should have no dessert for two days. Régina was greedy, but her pride was greater than her greediness. She turned round on her little heels and, dancing her jig, began to sing, “My little stomach isn’ at all glad,” until I wanted to rush at her and shake her. A few days later, during my lessons, I was told that the Ministry refused to allow me to act at the Vaudeville. M. Régnier told me how sorry he was, but he added in kindly tone: “Oh, but, my dear child, the _Conservatoire_ thinks a lot of you! Therefore you need not worry too much.” “I am sure that Camille Doucet is at the bottom of it,” I said. “No, he certainly is not,” answered M. Régnier, “Camille Doucet was our warmest advocate, but the Ministry will not, upon any account, hear of anything that might be detrimental to your début next year.” I at once felt most grateful to Camille Doucet for his kindness in bearing no ill-will after my little sister’s stupid behavior. I began to work again with the greatest zeal, and did not miss a single lesson. Every morning I went to the _Conservatoire_ with my governess. We started early, as I preferred walking to taking the omnibus, and I kept the franc which my mother gave me every morning, part of which was for the omnibus and part for cakes. We were to walk home always, but every other day we took a cab with the two francs I had saved for this purpose. My mother never knew about this little scheme, but it was not without remorse that my kind Brabender consented to be my accomplice. As I said before, I did not miss a lesson, and I even went to the deportment class, at which poor old M. Elie, duly curled, powdered, and adorned with lace frills, presided. This was the most amusing lesson imaginable. Very few of us attended this class, and M. Elie avenged himself on us for the abstention of the others. At every lesson each one of us was called forward. He addressed us by the familiar term of _thou_, and considered us as his property. There were only five or six of us, but we each had to mount the stage. He always stood up with his little black stick in his hand. No one knew why he should have this stick. [Illustration: LE CONSERVATOIRE NATIONAL DE MUSIQUE ET DE DECLAMATION, PARIS.] “Now, young ladies,” he would say, “the body thrown back, the head up, on tiptoes—that’s it—perfect. One, two, three, march.”