In the cab my “don’t-care” character won the day once more, and we chatted gayly about one and another of the people we had seen during the morning. “Oh, how ridiculous such and such a person was!” “Did you see her mother’s bonnet?” “And old Estebenet, did you see his white gloves? He must have stolen them from some policeman!” And hereupon we laughed like idiots, and then began again. “And that poor Châtelain had had his hair curled!” said Marie Lloyd. “Did you see his head?” I did not laugh any more, though, for this reminded me of how my own hair had been uncurled, and that it was thanks to that I had not won the first prize for tragedy. On reaching home we found my mother, my aunt, my godfather, our old friend Meydieu, Mme. Guérard’s husband, and my sister Jeanne with her hair all curled. This gave me a pang, for she had straight hair, and it had been curled to make her prettier, although she was charming without that, and the curl had been taken out of my hair, so that I had looked uglier. My mother spoke to Marie Lloyd with that charming and distinguished indifference peculiar to her. My godfather made a great fuss over her, for success was everything to this _bourgeois_. He had seen my young friend a hundred times before, and had not been struck by her beauty, nor yet touched by her poverty, but on this particular day he assured us that he had for a long time predicted Marie Lloyd’s triumph. He then came to me, put his two hands on my shoulders, and held me facing him. “Well, you were a failure,” he said. “Why persist now in going in for the theater? You are thin and small, your face is rather nice close to, but ugly in the distance, and your voice does not carry!” “Yes, my dear girl,” put in M. Meydieu, “your godfather is right. You had better marry the flour man who proposed, or that imbecile of a Spanish tanner who lost his brainless head for the sake of your pretty eyes. You will never do anything on the stage! You’d better marry!” M. Guérard came and shook hands with me. He was a man of nearly sixty years of age, and Mme. Guérard was under thirty. He was melancholy, gentle, and shy; he had been awarded the distinction of the Legion of Honor, and he wore a long, shabby frock coat, had aristocratic gestures, and was private secretary to M. De la Tour Desmoulins, a deputy very much in favor. M. Guérard was a well of science, and I owe a great deal to his kindness. Jeanne whispered to me: “Sister’s godfather said when he came in that you looked as ugly as possible.” Jeanne always spoke of my godfather in this way. I pushed her away, and we sat down to table. All through the meal my one wish was to go back to the convent. I did not eat much, and directly after luncheon was so tired that I had to go to bed.