Part 3 (1/2)

”Come, come, dear, that I may tell you....”

”Your lunch is ready,” announced Marguerite.

”Thank you,” replied Esperance; ”papa, mama, and I, we are all dying of hunger.”

Madame Darbois gently removed her daughter's hat.

”Please, dear papa, I want to tell you everything.”

”Too late, dear child, I know everything!”

The two ladies seemed surprised. ”But--? How?”

”Through my friend, Victor Perliez, the chemist; who is, like me, a father who feels deeply about his child's choice of a career.”

Esperance made a little move.

”No, little girl,” went on Francois Darbois, ”I do not want to cause you the least regret. Every now and then my innermost thoughts may escape me; but that will pa.s.s.... I know that you showed unusual simplicity as '_Henriette_,' and emotion as '_Iphygenia_.' Perliez's son, whom I used to know when he was no higher than that,” he said, stretching out his hand, ”was enthusiastic? He is, furthermore, a clever boy, who might have made something uncommon out of himself as a lawyer, perhaps. But--”

”But, father dear, he will make a fine lawyer; he will have an influence in the theatre that will be more direct, more beneficial, more far-reaching, than at the Bar. Oh! but yes! You remember, don't you, mama, how disturbed you were by M. Dubare's plea on behalf of the a.s.sa.s.sin of Jeanne Verdier? Well, is it not n.o.ble to defend the poets, and introduce to the public all the new scientific and political ideas?”

”Often wrong ideas,” remarked Darbois.

”That is perhaps true, but what of it? Have you not said a thousand times that discussion is the necessary soil for the development of new ideas?”

The professor of philosophy looked at his daughter, realizing that every word he had spoken in her hearing, all the seed that he had cast to the wind, had taken root in her young mind.

”But,” inquired Madame Darbois, ”where did you see M. Perliez?”

The professor began to smile. ”Outside the Conservatoire. Perliez and I ran into each other, both impelled by the same extreme anxiety towards the scene of our sacrifice. It is not really necessary to consult all the philosophical authorities on this subject of inanition of will,” he added, wearily.

”Oh! chocolate custard,” cried out Esperance with rapture, ”Marguerite is giving us a treat.”

”Yes, Mademoiselle, I knew very well....”

A ring at the front door bell cut short her words. They listened silently, and heard the door open, and someone come in. Then the maid entered with a card.

Francois Darbois rose at once. ”I will see him in the salon,” he said.

He handed the card to his wife and went to meet his visitor. Esperance leaned towards her mother and read with her the celebrated name, ”Victorien Sardou.” Together they questioned the import of this visit, without being able to find any satisfactory explanation.

When Francois entered the salon, Sardou was standing, his hands clasped behind him, examining through half-closed eyes a delicate pastel, signed Chaplain--a portrait of Madame Darbois at twenty. At the professor's entry, he turned round and exclaimed with the engaging friendliness that was one of his special charms, ”What a very pretty thing, and what superb colour!”

Then advancing, ”It is to M. Francois Darbois that I have the pleasure of speaking, is it not?”

He had not missed the formality in the surprise evinced by the professor as, without speaking, the professor bowed him towards a chair.

”Let me say to begin with, my dear professor, that I am one of your most fervent followers. Your last book, _Philosophy is not Indifference_, is, in my opinion, a work of real beauty. Your doctrine does not discourage youth, and after reading your book, I decided to send my sons to your lectures.”

Francois Darbois thanked the great author. The ice was broken. They discussed Plato, Aristotle, Montaigne, Schaupenhauer, etc. Victorien Sardou heard the clock strike; he had lunched hastily and had to be back at the Conservatoire by two o'clock, as the jury still had to hear eleven pupils. He began laughing and talking very fast, in his habitual manner: ”I must tell you, however, why I have come; your daughter, who pa.s.sed her examination this morning, is very excellent.

She has the making of a real artist; the voice, the smile, the grace, the distinction, the manner, the rhythm. This child of fifteen has every gift! I am now arranging a play for the Vaudeville. The princ.i.p.al role is that of a very young girl. Just at present there are only well-worn professionals in the theatre.”