I have sometimes tried to compel the public to return to the truth, and to destroy the legendary side of certain personages whom history, thanks to its documents, now represents to us as they were in reality; but the public never followed me. I soon realized that legend remains victorious in spite of history, and this is perhaps a good thing for the mind of the crowd. Jesus, Joan of Arc, Shakespeare, the Virgin Mary, Mahomet, and Napoleon I have all entered into legend. It is impossible now for our brain to picture Jesus and the Virgin Mary accomplishing humiliating human functions. They lived the life that we are living. Death chilled their sacred limbs, and it is not without rebellion and grief that we accept this fact. We start off in pursuit of them in an ethereal heaven, in the infinite of our dreams. We cast down all the dross of humanity in order to let them, clothed in the ideal, be seated on a throne of love. We do not like Joan of Arc to be the rustic, bold, peasant woman, repulsing violently the old soldier who wants to joke with her, sitting astride her big steed like a man, laughing readily at the coarse jokes of the soldiers, submitting to the lewd promiscuities of the barbarous epoch in which she lived, and having, on that account, all the more merit in remaining a most heroic maiden. We do not care for such useless truths. In the legend she is a fragile woman guided by a divine soul. Her girl’s arm which holds the heavy banner is sustained by an invisible angel. In her childish eyes there is something from another world, and it is from this that all the warriors get their strength and courage. It is thus that we wish it to be, and so the legend remains triumphant. But to return to the _Conservatoire_. Nearly all the pupils had gone away, and I remained quiet and embarrassed on my bench. Marie Lloyd came and sat down by me. “Are you unhappy?” she asked. “Yes,” I answered. “I wanted the first prize, and you have it. It is unjust.” “I do not know whether it is just or not,” answered Marie Lloyd, “but I assure you that it is not my fault.” I could not help laughing at this. “Shall I come home with you to luncheon?” she asked, and her beautiful eyes grew moist and beseeching. She was an orphan and unhappy, and on this day of triumph she felt the need of a family. My heart began to melt with pity and affection. I threw my arms round her neck, and we all four went away together—Marie Lloyd, Mme. Guérard, Mlle. De Brabender, and I. My mother had sent me word that she had gone on home.