a scene from Andromaque: he is so bad, so very bad, that the audience are moved to sudden outbursts of hilarity by his grand tragic points.  He is succeeded by a boy of sixteen, tall and graceful, with a fine tragic face of the heroic Kemble mould, and great blue-gray eyes that dilate or contract beneath the impulses of the moment—­a born actor from head to foot.  He fairly thrills the audience in the great scene of the duke de Nemours from Louis XI.  This youth, M. Guitry, is undoubtedly, if his life be spared, the coming tragedian of the French stage.  Then we have the first one of the lady competitors, Mademoiselle Edet, a tall, awkward girl of eighteen, with a flat face and Chinese-like features, dressed up in a gown of cream-yellow foulard trimmed with wide fringe and made with a loose jacket, whereon the fringes wave wildly in the air as she flings her arms around in the tragic love-making of Phedre.  Two or three others of moderate merit succeed, and then comes Mademoiselle Jullien, who gives the great scene of Roxane in Bajazet with so much intelligence of intonation and grace of gesture that the audience are moved to sudden applause.  She is rather too short and of too delicate a physique for tragedy, but her face is expressive, her eyes fine, and there are intellect and talent in every tone and movement.  She is nearly twenty-nine years of age, so has not much time to waste if she is to make her mark in her profession.  Last on the list of tragic aspirants comes a gentleman of thirty-one, M. Aubert, who goes through a scene from Hamlet in a very tolerable manner.  He was in the army, was doing well and was rising in grade when, seized by the theatrical mania, he relinquished his profession and turned his attention to the stage.  Thus far, he has proved, practically speaking, a failure:  he has won no prizes, and no manager will engage him.  This is his last chance, as his age will prevent him, by the rules of the Conservatoire, from taking part in any future competition.

The tragedy concours ended, a recess of an hour is proclaimed, and there is a rush to the refreshment-tables and a great consumption of sandwiches and cakes, of coffee and water (known as “mazagran”) and of vin ordinaire.  Under that vestibule pass and repass the literary luminaries of modern France.  Here is Henri de Bornier, the author of La Fille de Roland, a quiet, earnest-looking gentleman, with clear luminous eyes and the smallest hands imaginable.  Here comes Francisque Sarcey, the greatest dramatic critic of France and one of the most noted of her Republican journalists, broad-shouldered, black-eyed and stalwart-looking.  Yonder stand a group of Academicians—­Legouve, Doucet, Dumas—­in earnest conversation with Edouard Thierry, the librarian of the Arsenal.  The handsome, delicate, aristocratic-looking gentleman who joins the group is M. Perrin, the director of the Comedie Francaise, the most accomplished and intelligent theatrical