“The story was without doubt not sufficiently interesting for him to recollect. It is so commonplace, comprising as it does the death of the unfortunate man who killed himself in a fit of despair. The least commonplace part of the story is that mother sacrificed her fortune to preserve my father’s honour. It is true it was a fortune he had settled upon her and it had come from him. That makes no difference. There are not many women in the world of wealth which Jacques loves so dearly, who would do that, are there? Every debt was paid, and we are left with an income of 7,000 francs, on which we lived till last year, when I appeared at the Vaudeville.” “How did the idea of going on the stage enter your mind?” I asked. “You want a confession,” she said, “and you shall have one. Is it possible to say why one’s existence turns in this or that direction? A person would not go out in the street but for the thought of events which lead to a meeting.” She smiled as she uttered this phrase which awakened in me a very clear echo. I realized that it was one of those chances which had made me acquainted with her, for the destruction of my peace of mind. She went on— “If I believe in anything, you see, it is in destiny. Among the few persons we continued to meet was a friend of my father’s, a great lover of the theatre. He is dead now. He listened to me one day, without my knowing it, reciting a piece of poetry I had learnt by heart. Our old friend spoke to me of his memory, which was failing him. He advised me to cultivate mine. This little chance shaped my life. He realized that I recited those few verses well. For amusement he gave me others to learn. I was fifteen years old, and he treated me without any more ceremony than he would his own niece. After my second effort at reciting he had a long conversation with mother. We were poor. We might become worse off still. We had nothing to expect from our relatives, who had been very hard on my poor father. A talent is a livelihood, and to-day the stage is a career like painting and literature. The days of prejudice are past. You can imagine the arguments of the old Parisian and my mother’s objections. But the latter could not outweigh the authority our friend had acquired over us by remaining faithful to us. We had been so utterly deserted by our other friends, though perhaps it was partly our own fault. Mother was so proud! The joy I displayed when I was consulted was what finally convinced mother. That was how I first went to a professor and then to the Conservatoire, which I left three years ago with two first prizes. An engagement at the Odéon was followed directly by one at the Vaudeville; and now you know as much as I do about Camille Favier.” “About Mademoiselle Favier,” I corrected her, “but not about Camille.”