He took me on toward the stage. The mysterious gloom, the scenery reared up like fortifications, the bareness of the floor, the endless number of weights, ropes, trees, friezes, harrows overhead, the yawning house completely dark, the silence, broken by the creaking of the floor, and the vaultlike chill that one felt—all this together awed me. It did not seem to me to be part of that brilliant frame for the living _artistes_ who every night won the applause of the house by their merriment or their sobs. No, I felt as though I were in the tomb of dead glories, and the stage seemed to me to be getting crowded with the illustrious ghosts of those whom the manager had just mentioned. With my highly strung nerves, my imagination, which was always evoking something, now saw them advance toward me, stretching out their hands. These specters wanted to take me away with them. I put my hands over my eyes and stood still. “Are you not well?” asked M. Davenne. “Oh, yes, thank you, it was just a little giddiness.” His voice had chased away the specters, and I opened my eyes and paid attention to the worthy man’s advice. Book in hand, he explained to me where I was to stand, and my changes of place. He was rather pleased with my way of reciting, and he taught me a few of the traditions. At the line: “_Euripide à l’autel, conduisez la victime_,” he said: “Mlle. Favart was very effective there....” The _artistes_ gradually began to arrive, grumbling more or less. They glanced at me, and then rehearsed their scenes without taking any further notice of me at all. I felt inclined to cry, but I was more vexed than anything else. I heard a few words that sounded to me coarse, used by one or another of the _artistes_. I was not accustomed to such language, as at home everyone was rather scrupulous, and at my aunt’s a trifle affected, while at the convent it is unnecessary to say I had never heard a word that was out of place. It is true that I had been through the _Conservatoire_, but I had not associated intimately with any of the pupils, with the exception of Marie Lloyd and Rose Baretta, the elder sister of Blanche Baretta, who is now an associate of the Comédie Française. When the rehearsal was over, it was decided that there should be another one at the same hour the following day, in the public _foyer_. The costume maker came in search of me, as she wanted to try on my costume. Mlle. De Brabender, who had arrived during the rehearsal, went up with me to the costume room. She wanted my arms to be covered, but the costume maker told her gently that this was impossible for tragedy. A dress of white woolen material was tried on me. It was very ugly, and the veil was so stiff that I refused it. A wreath of roses was tried on, but this, too, was so ugly that I refused to wear it. “Well, then, mademoiselle,” said the costume maker dryly, “you will have to get these things and pay for them yourself, as this is the costume supplied by the Comédie.”