"You must fully understand," he observed to Madame Doulce, "that the opinion of the newspapers cannot affect our decision. We are absolutely indifferent to it, and we do not disturb ourselves in the slightest degree, no matter what fifty public sheets may say about the unfortunate young fellow. Whether the journalists have told the truth or distorted it is their affair, not mine. I do not know and I do not wish to know what they have written. But the fact of the suicide is notorious. You cannot dispute it. It would now be advisable to investigate closely, and by the light of science, the circumstances in which the deed was committed. Do not be surprised by my thus invoking the aid of science. Science has no better friend than religion. Now medical science may in the present case be of great assistance to us. You will understand in a moment. Mother Church ejects the suicide from her bosom only when his act is an act of despair. The madmen who attempt their own lives are not those who have lost all hope, and the Church does not deny them her prayers; she prays for all who are unfortunate. Now, if it could be proved that this poor boy had acted under the influence of a high fever or of a mental disorder, if a medical man were in a position to certify that the poor fellow was not in possession of his faculties when he slew himself with his own hand, there would be no obstacle to the celebration of a religious service." Having hearkened to the words of Monsieur l'Abbe Mirabelle, Madame Doulce hastened back to the theatre. The rehearsal of _La Grille_ was over. She found Pradel in his office with a couple of young actresses, one of whom was soliciting an engagement, the other, leave of absence. He refused, in conformity with his principle never to grant a request until he had first refused it. In this way he bestowed a value upon his most trifling concessions. His glistening eyes and his patriarchal beard, his manner, at once amorous and paternal, gave him a resemblance to Lot, as we see him between his two daughters in the prints of the Old Masters. Standing on the table was an amphora of gilt pasteboard which fostered this illusion. "It can't be done," he was telling each of them. "It really can't be done, my child----Well, after all, look in to-morrow." Having dismissed them, he inquired, as he signed some letters: "Well, Madame Doulce, what news do you bring?" Constantin Marc, appearing with Nanteuil, hastily exclaimed: "What about my scenery, Monsieur Pradel?" Thereupon he described for the twentieth time the landscape, upon which the curtain ought to rise. "In the foreground, an old park. The trunks of the great trees, on the north side, are green with moss. The dampness of the soil must be felt." And the manager replied: "You may rest assured that everything that can be done will be done, and that it will be most appropriate. Well, Madame Doulce, what news?" "There is a glimmer of hope," she replied.