Just then the author of the play suddenly entered, and Lucien beheld M. du Bruel, a short, attenuated young man in an overcoat, a composite human blend of the jack-in-office, the owner of house-property, and the stockbroker. “Florine, child,” said this personage, “are you sure of your part, eh? No slips of memory, you know. And mind that scene in the second act, make the irony tell, bring out that subtle touch; say, ‘I do not love you,’ just as we agreed.” “Why do you take parts in which you have to say such things?” asked Matifat. The druggist’s remark was received with a general shout of laughter. “What does it matter to you,” said Florine, “so long as I don’t say such things to you, great stupid?—Oh! his stupidity is the pleasure of my life,” she continued, glancing at the journalist. “Upon my word, I would pay him so much for every blunder, if it would not be the ruin of me.” “Yes, but you will look at me when you say it, as you do when you are rehearsing, and it gives me a turn,” remonstrated the druggist. “Very well, then, I will look at my friend Lousteau here.” A bell rang outside in the passage. “Go out, all of you!” cried Florine; “let me read my part over again and try to understand it.” Lucien and Lousteau were the last to go. Lousteau set a kiss on Florine’s shoulder, and Lucien heard her say, “Not to-night. Impossible. That stupid old animal told his wife that he was going out into the country.” “Isn’t she charming?” said Étienne, as they came away. “But—but that Matifat, my dear fellow——” “Oh! you know nothing of Parisian life, my boy. Some things cannot be helped. Suppose that you fell in love with a married woman, it comes to the same thing. It all depends on the way that you look at it.” Étienne and Lucien entered the stage-box, and found the manager there with Finot. Matifat was in the ground-floor box exactly opposite with a friend of his, a silk-mercer named Camusot (Coralie’s protector), and a worthy little old soul, his father-in-law. All three of these city men were polishing their opera-glasses, and anxiously scanning the house; certain symptoms in the pit appeared to disturb them. The usual heterogeneous first-night elements filled the boxes—journalists and their mistresses, _lorettes_ and their lovers, a sprinkling of the determined playgoers who never miss a first night if they can help it, and a very few people of fashion who care for this sort of sensation. The first box was occupied by the head of a department, to whom du Bruel, maker of vaudevilles, owed a snug little sinecure in the Treasury.