Being extremely hungry, he took a cab at the barrier, and had himself driven to a restaurant in the Rue Royale. In the bright, warm room he was conscious of a sense of well-being. After ordering his meal, he opened an evening newspaper and saw, in the Parliamentary report, that his Minister had delivered a speech. On reading it, he smothered a slight laugh; he remembered certain stories told at the Quai d'Orsay. The Minister of Foreign Affairs was enamoured of Madame de Neuilles, an elderly lady with a lurid past, whom public rumour had raised to the status of adventuress and spy. He was wont, it was whispered, to try on her the speeches which he was to deliver in the Chamber. Ligny, who had formerly been to a certain small extent the lover of Madame de Neuilles, pictured to himself the statesman in his shirt reciting to his lady-love the following statement of principles: "Far be it from me to disregard the legitimate susceptibilities of the national sentiment. Resolutely pacific, but jealous of France's honour, the Government will, etc." This vision put him in a merry mood. He turned the page, and read: To-morrow at the Odeon, first performance (in this theatre) of _La Nuit du 23 octobre 1812_ with Messieurs Durville, Maury, Romilly, Destree, Vicar, Leon Clim, Valroche, Aman, Chevalier.... CHAPTER VIII At one o'clock on the following day _La Grille_ was in rehearsal, for the first time, in the green-room of the theatre. A dismal light spread like a pall over the grey stones of the roof, the galleries, and the columns. In the depressing majesty of this pallid architecture, beneath the statue of Racine, the leading actors were reading before Pradel, the manager of the house, their parts, which they did not yet know. Romilly, the stage manager, and Constantine Marc, the author of the piece, were all three seated on a red velvet sofa, while, from a bench set back between two columns, was exhaled the vigilant hatred and whispered jealousy of the actresses left out of the cast. The lover, Paul Delage, was with difficulty deciphering a speech: "'I recognize the chateau with its brick walls, its slated roof; the park, where I have so often entwined her initials and mine on the bark of the trees; the pond whose slumbering waters....'" Fagette rebuked him: "'Beware, Aimeri, lest the chateau know you not again, lest the park forget your name, lest the pond murmur: "Who is this stranger?"'" But she had a cold, and was reading from a manuscript copy full of mistakes. "Don't stand there, Fagette: it's the summer-house," said Romilly. "How do you expect me to know that?" "There's a chair put there." "'Lest the pond murmur: "Who is this stranger?"'" "Mademoiselle Nanteuil, it's your cue----Where has Nanteuil got to? Nanteuil!" Nanteuil came forward muffled up in her furs, her little bag and her part in her hand, white as a sheet, her eyes sunken, her legs nerveless. When fully awake she had seen the dead man enter her bedroom.