Her father had encouraged
her, and procured her a professor of literature. From that time the
child had given herself completely to the art of the drama, learning
by heart and reciting aloud the most beautiful parts of French
literature. Her parents, listening with pleasure to her recitations of
Ronsard or Victor Hugo, little guessing that the child was already
dreaming of the theatre. Often since then, Madame Darbois had
reproached herself for having foreseen so little, but her husband,
whose wisdom recognized the uselessness of vain regrets, would calm
her, saying with a shake of his head, "You can prevent nothing, my
dear wife, destiny is a force against which all is impotent! We can
but remove the stumbling-blocks from the path which Esperance must
follow. We must be patient!"
At last the day arrived! Never had the young girl been more charming.
Francois Darbois had been working arduously on the correction of a
book he was about to publish, when he saw her coming into his library.
He turned towards her and, regarding her there in the doorway, seemed
to see the archangel of victory--such radiance emanated from this frail
little body.
"I wanted to kiss you, father, before going ... there. Pardon me for
having disturbed you." He pressed her close against his heart without
speaking, unwilling to pronounce the words of regret that mounted to
his lips.
Esperance was silent for an instant before her father's grief: then
with an exaltation of her whole being she flung herself on her
father's neck: "Oh, father, dear father, I am so happy that you must
not suffer; you love me so much that you must be happy in this
happiness I owe to you; to-morrow, perhaps, will bring me tears.
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