• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Then,” declared the actor, “I must have the word at the end. You certainly owe me that.”

Fauchery’s silence appeared to give consent, and Prullière put his part back in his pocket, still excited and discontented all the same. Bosc and Fontan, during the discussion, had assumed looks of supreme indifference. Every one for himself. It did not concern them, they took no interest in it; and all the actors surrounded Fauchery, questioning him and fishing for compliments, whilst Mignon listened to Prullière’s final complaints, without losing sight of Count Muffat, whose return he had been watching for. The count remained in shadow at the back of the stage, hesitating to advance into the midst of the quarrel; but Bordenave catching sight of him, hastened to where he stood.

“Aren’t they a set of grumblers?” murmured he. “You’ve no idea, count, what trouble I have with those people. They’re all more vain one than the other, and so disobliging and spiteful —always slandering other people, and only too delighted if I make myself ill in keeping them to their business. But excuse me, I’m losing my temper.”

He stopped, and silence ensued between them. Muffat was seeking a way of leading up to the subject that occupied his mind; but failing in his endeavour, he ended by abruptly saying, so as to get it over the sooner,

“Nana wants to play the part of the duchess.”

Bordenave started violently as he exclaimed, “Pooh! that’s absurd!” Then glancing at the count, he saw him looking so pale, so agitated, that he regained his composure at once. “The deuce!” he added simply.

And there was again silence between them. As for himself, he did not care a fig. It would perhaps be funny to have that fat Nana to play the part of the duchess. Besides, he would thus have a strong hold on Muffat. So his decision was soon formed. He turned round and called,

“Fauchery! ”

The count made a slight gesture to stop him. Fauchery did not hear. Fontan had got him up against the proscenium wall, and was giving him his ideas of the part of Tardiveau. The actor thought he should make up as a Marseillais, with the southern accent, which he kept imitating. He made whole speeches that way; was that the proper rendering of the part? He seemed only to be giving his own ideas, and which he himself had doubts about. But Fauchery, keeping very cool in the matter, and offering numerous objections, Fontan became annoyed at once. Very well! As the correct reading of the part had entirely escaped him, it would be far better for every one that he should not play it.

“Fauchery!” Bordenave again called.

Then the young man hurried away, glad of the opportunity of escaping from the actor, who felt highly indignant at being left in so abrupt a manner.

“Don’t let us remain here,” resumed Bordenave. “Come, gentlemen.”

To be out of the way of indiscreet ears, he took them to the property room behind the stage. Mignon watched them go off, greatly surprised. A few steps descended to the room, which was square, with a couple of windows looking on to the courtyard. The ceiling was low, and the dirty window panes only admitted that dim light usually met with in cellars. In pigeon-holes placed about the room was a collection of all sorts of things—the turn-out of a second-hand dealer of the Rue de Lappeau selling off, an odd medley of plates, of cups in gilded pasteboard, of old red umbrellas, of Italian pitchers, of clocks of every shape and size, of trays and inkstands, of firearms and squirts—the whole heaped anyhow, chipped, broken, unrecognisable, and covered with a layer of dust an inch thick; and an unbearable stench of old iron and rags and of damp pasteboard arose from the piles formed of the remains of the pieces produced during a period of fifty years.

“Come in here,” said Bordenave. “We shall at least be by ourselves.”

The count, very much embarrassed, moved on a few steps, to leave the manager to arrange matters by himself. Fauchery could not make it all out.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Well, it’s just this,