He then took my hand. I felt an instinctive horror at his, for it was flabby, and there was no life or sincerity in its grasp. I quickly took mine away and looked at him. He was plain, with a red face and eyes that avoided one’s gaze. As I was going away I met Coquelin, who, hearing I was there, had waited to see me. He had made his _début_ a year before with great success. “Well, it’s settled then!” he said gaily. I showed him the contract and shook hands with him. I went quickly down the stairs, and just as I was leaving the theatre found myself in the midst of a group in the doorway. “Are you satisfied?” asked a gentle voice which I recognised as M. Doucet’s. “Oh yes, Monsieur; thank you so much,” I answered. “But my dear child, I have nothing to do with it,” he said. “Your competition was not at all good, but nevertheless we feel sure of you,” put in M. Régnier, and then turning to Camille Doucet he asked, “What do you say, Excellency?” “I think that this child will be a very great artist,” he replied. There was a silence for a moment. “Well, you have got a fine carriage!” exclaimed Beauvallet rudely. He was the first tragedian of the Comédie, and the most uncouth man in France or anywhere else. “This carriage belongs to Mademoiselle’s aunt,” remarked Camille Doucet, shaking hands with me gently. “Oh—well, I am glad to hear that,” answered the tragedian. I then stepped into the carriage which had caused such a sensation at the theatre, and drove away. On reaching home I took the contract to my mother. She signed it without reading it. I made my mind resolutely to be some one _quand-même_. A few days after my engagement at the Comédie Française my aunt gave a dinner-party. Among her guests were the Duc de Morny, Camille Doucet and the Minister of Fine Arts, M. de Walewski, Rossini, my mother, Mlle. de Brabender, and I. During the evening a great many other people came. My mother had dressed me very elegantly, and it was the first time I had worn a really low dress. Oh, how uncomfortable I was! Every one paid me great attention. Rossini asked me to recite some poetry, and I consented willingly, glad and proud to be of some little importance. I chose Casimir Delavigne’s poem, “_L’Ame du Purgatoire_.” “That should be spoken with music as an accompaniment,” exclaimed Rossini when I came to an end. Every one approved this idea, and Walewski said; “Mademoiselle will begin again, and you could improvise, _cher maître_.” There was great excitement, and I at once began again. Rossini improvised the most delightful harmony, which filled me with emotion. My tears flowed freely without my being conscious of them, and at the end my mother kissed me, saying: “This is the first time that you have really moved me.” As a matter of fact, she adored music, and it was Rossini’s improvisation that had moved her.