The interest and delight of my work quite filled me, so that
the fate of my composition hardly came into my thoughts, or
the fact that other people were writing compositions too. And
when it was done, I was simply very sorry that it was done. I
had not written it for honour or for duty, but for love. I
suppose that was the reason why it succeeded. I remember I was
anything but satisfied with it myself, as I was reading it
aloud for the benefit of my judges. For it was a day of prize
compositions; and before the whole school and even some
visitors, the writings of the girls were given aloud, each by
its author. I thought, as I read mine, how poor it was, and
how magnificent my subject demanded that it should be. Under
the shade of the great columns, before those fine old
sphinxes, my words and myself seemed very small. I sat down in
my place again, glad that the reading was over.
But there was a little buzz; then a dead expectant silence;
then Mme. Ricard arose. My composition had been the last one.
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