Basically I had worked hard, I told myself, I had spent my life working endlessly. The actors I knew at the age of twenty had had no success, it’s true, most had even completely given up the trade, but it must also be said that they had done fuck-all, they had spent their time drinking in bars or trendy clubs. During this time I was rehearsing, alone in my bedroom, I spent hours on each intonation and each gesture; and I wrote my sketches as well, I really wrote them, it took me years before that became easy. If I worked so hard, it was probably because I wouldn’t actually have been capable of enjoying myself; I wouldn’t have been very at ease in the bars and trendy clubs, at the parties organized by couturiers, in the VIP sections: with my ordinary physique and my introverted temperament, I had, from the outset, very little chance of being the life of the party. So I worked, for want of anything else; and I have had my revenge. In my youth, basically, I was in the same state of mind as Ophélie Winter when she ruminated, thinking about her entourage: “Have a good laugh, my little cunts. Later I’ll be the one on the podium and I’ll give you all the finger.” She had declared that in an interview with 20 Ans.