She said this very slowly in a gentle voice. It was like the sound of a little waterfall as it flows down, babbling and clear, from the mountain, dragging with it the gravel, and gradually increasing in volume with the thawed snow until it sweeps along rocks and trees in its course. This was the effect my mother’s clear drawling voice had upon me at that moment. I rushed back impulsively to the others, who were all speechless at this unexpected and spontaneous burst of eloquence. I went from one to the other, explaining my decision, and giving reasons which were certainly no reasons at all. I did my utmost to get someone to support me in the matter. Finally the Duc de Morny was bored, and rose to go. “Do you know what you ought to do with this child?” he said. “You ought to send her to the Conservatoire.” He then patted my cheek, kissed my aunt’s hand, and bowed to all the others. As he bent over my mother’s hand I heard him say to her, “You would have made a bad diplomatist; but follow my advice, and send her to the Conservatoire.” He then took his departure, and I gazed at every one in perfect anguish. The Conservatoire! What was it? What did it mean? I went up to my governess, Mlle. de Brabender. Her lips were firmly pressed together, and she looked shocked, just as she did sometimes when my godfather told some story that she did not approve at table. My uncle, Félix Faure, was gazing at the floor in an absent-minded way; the notary had a spiteful look in his eyes, my aunt was holding forth in a very excited manner, and M. Meydieu kept shaking his head and muttering, “Perhaps—yes—who knows?—hum—hum!” Madame Guérard was very pale and sad, and she looked at me with infinite tenderness. What could this Conservatoire be? The word uttered so carelessly seemed to have entirely disturbed the equanimity of all present. Each one of them seemed to me to have a different impression about it, but none looked pleased. Suddenly in the midst of the general embarrassment my godfather exclaimed brutally: “She is too thin to make an actress.” “I won’t be an actress!” I exclaimed. “You don’t know what an actress is,” said my aunt. “Oh yes, I do. Rachel is an actress.” “You know Rachel?” asked mamma, getting up. “Oh yes; she came to the convent once to see little Adèle Sarony. She went all over the convent and into the garden, and she had to sit down because she could not get her breath. They fetched her something to bring her round, and she was so pale, oh, so pale. I was very sorry for her, and Sister St. Appoline told me what she did was killing her, for she was an actress; and so I won’t be an actress—I won’t!” I had said all this in a breath, with my cheeks on fire and my voice hard.