manager in France.  There is an elderly, reserved-looking gentleman beside him who looks like a solemn savant out on a holiday.  It takes more than one glance for us to recognize in him the most accomplished light comedian of our day, that embodiment of grace, vivacity, sparkling wit and unfading youth, who is known to the boards of the Comedie Francaise by the name of Delaunay.  There are other minor luminaries, too numerous to mention.

We go up stairs and resume our seats, and the competition of comedy is begun.  Scene succeeds to scene and competitor to competitor:  the day wears on, and flitting clouds from time to time obscure the dome, bringing out the glare of the footlights that have been burning all day in a singularly effective manner.  Of the nineteen competitors, the deepest impression is made by M. Barral, who plays a scene from L’Avare magnificently; by Mademoiselle Carriere, who reveals herself as a sparkling and intelligent soubrette; and by Mademoiselle Sisos, a genuine comedienne, only sixteen years of age and as pretty as a peach.  It is six o’clock when the last competitor has said his say, and then the jury retire to deliberate respecting the awards.  What a flutter there must be among the young things whose future destiny is now swaying in the balance, for success means fortune, and failure a disheartening postponement, and to the elder ones downright and disastrous ruin of all their hopes!  Half an hour passes, and then, after what seems a weary period of suspense, the box-door is thrown open and the jury resume their seats.  Ambroise Thomas, the president of the Conservatoire, strikes his bell and a dead silence ensues.  In a full sonorous voice he begins:  “Concours of tragedy, men’s class.  No prizes.—­Usher, summon M. Guitry.”  The gifted boy comes forward to the footlights.  “M.  Guitry, the jury have awarded to you a premier accessit.”  He bows and retires amid the hearty applause of the audience.  “Women’s class.—­Usher, call Mademoiselle Jullien.”  She comes out pale and agitated, the slight form quivering like a wind-swept flower in her robes of creamy cashmere.  Is it the Odeon that awaits her—­the second prize? for in her modesty she had only hoped for a premier accessit. “Mademoiselle Jullien, the jury have awarded to you the first prize.”  The first prize!  Those words mean to her an assured career, a brilliant future, the doors of the Comedie Francaise flung wide open to receive her.  She falters, trembles, bows profoundly, and goes off in a very passion of hysterical weeping.  Then come the comedy awards.  M. Barral gets a first prize, as is his just due, as does also Mademoiselle Carriere.  “Usher, call Mademoiselle Sisos.”  She comes forward, her great brown eyes dilated with excitement, her cheeks burning like two red roses, a mass of faded white roses clinging amid the rumpled gold of her hair—­a very bewitching picture of childish grace and beauty.  “Mademoiselle