Madame told me especially to get a Nev’-York.” On that particular day, if Françoise was consumed by the burning certainty of creative genius, my lot was the cruel anxiety of the seeker after truth. No doubt, so long as I had not yet heard Berma speak, I still felt some pleasure. I felt it in the little square that lay in front of the theatre, in which, in two hours’ time, the bare boughs of the chestnut trees would gleam with a metallic lustre as the lighted gas-lamps showed up every detail of their structure; before the attendants in the box-office, the selection of whom, their promotion, all their destiny depended upon the great artist⁠—for she alone held power in the theatre, where ephemeral managers followed one after the other in an obscure succession⁠—who took our tickets without even glancing at us, so preoccupied were they with their anxiety lest any of

Mme.