"I am giving this reading for the benefit of the three poor orphans left by Lacour, the actor, who died so sadly of consumption this winter. I am counting on you, my darlings, to dispose of some tickets for me." "All the same, she really is ridiculous, Marie-Claire!" said Nanteuil. Some one scratched at the door of the box. It was Constantin Marc, the youthful author of a play, _La Grille_, which the Odeon was going to rehearse immediately; and Constantin Marc, although a countryman living in the forest, could henceforth breathe only in the theatre. Nanteuil was to take the principal part in the play. He gazed upon her with emotion, as the precious amphora destined to be the receptacle of his thought. Meanwhile Durville continued hoarsely: "If our France can be saved only at the price of our life and honour, I shall say, with the man of '93: 'Perish our memory!'" Fagette pointed her finger at a bloated youth, who was sitting in the orchestra, resting his chin on his walking-stick. "Isn't that Baron Deutz?" "Need you ask!" replied Nanteuil. "Ellen Midi is in the cast. She plays in the fourth act. Baron Deutz has come to display himself." "Just wait a minute, my children; I have a word to say to that ill-mannered cub. He met me yesterday in the Place de la Concorde, and he didn't bow to me." "What, Baron Deutz? He couldn't have seen you!" "He saw me perfectly well. But he was with his people. I am going to have him on toast. Just you watch, my dears." She called him very softly: "Deutz! Deutz!" The Baron came towards her, smiling and well-pleased with himself, and leaned his elbows on the edge of the box. "Tell me, Monsieur Deutz, when you met me yesterday, were you in very bad company that you did not raise your hat to me?" He looked at her in astonishment. "I? I was with my sister." "Oh!" On the stage, Marie-Claire, hanging upon Durville's neck, was exclaiming: "Go! Victorious or defeated, in good or evil fortune, your glory will be equally great. Come what may, I shall know how to show myself the wife of a hero." "That will do, Madame Marie-Claire!" said Pradel. Just at that moment Chevalier made his entry, and immediately the author, tearing his hair, let loose a flood of imprecations: "Do you call that an entry? It's a tumble, a catastrophe, a cataclysm! Ye gods! A meteor, an aerolith, a bit of the moon falling on to the stage would be less horribly disastrous! I will take off my play! Chevalier, come in again, my good fellow!" The artist who had designed the costumes, Michel, a fair young man with a mystic's beard, was seated in the first row, on the arm of a stall. He leaned over and whispered into the ear of Roger, the scene-painter: "And to think it's the fifty-sixth time that he's dropped on Chevalier with the same fury!" "Well, you know, Chevalier is rottenly bad," replied Roger, without hesitation.