At least thirty old actors and old actresses in the café: and most of them with empty glasses. A lull, during which many look vacantly before them, while others tap with their boots on the floor and drum with their fingers on the tables. Great yawns, and occasional stretching of arms, and often the exclamation: “Mais je m’ennuie, je m’ennuie!” In a corner, a dingy waiter is sprawled over a racing paper, and behind the counter, the burly proprietor, in his shirt sleeves, dozes. Outside, the hoarse shouts of the _camelots_, selling the evening papers. Outside, the animation of the boulevards. “Messieurs, Mesdames.” A quick, brusque voice, and a short, stout little man, with a huge watch-chain, an umbrella, a thick black moustache, a double chin and a great swollen neck. “Has Jules been here? What is the use of Jules? What is the use of any agent? I call at his office; he is not there. I ask where he is; no one can tell. I come here—although I have not a moment to spare.” A manager; at last, a manager! And the manager of one of the vast, shabby, outlying theatres, who also sends companies out on tour. “I have need of four men, two ladies, and a child, for _The Terror of the Fortifications_. Tour starts at St Quentin on Monday week, and lasts twenty-one weeks. I want workers. Salary for men, not more than fifty francs; for women, forty to fifty; for the child, twenty-five.” “Mais c’est bien, c’est très bien, Monsieur le Directeur,” says old Cottin, say old Cottin’s comrades. And old Cottin and three of his friends, and the faded, wrinkled lady with the bright (and bad) gold hair, and one of her friends, all rise before Monsieur le Directeur. “I will try to find the child,” says the faded woman. “Girl,” says the director. “Small, thin and not over eleven. Come to see me to-morrow morning at twelve.” And the stout director waddles out. “They say it is _épatant_, the _Terror of the Fortifications_,” observes an old actor. “Ah,” replies old Cottin absentmindedly: old Cottin, late of a boulevard theatre. “Au revoir,” says Madame Marguerite de Brémont, picking up her reticule and bag. “Au revoir, and good luck. I shall tell the director to-night that I have chosen the yellow and pearls.” Four old actors, and two old actresses, at one table, with their heads together. “The curtain rises in a hovel,” says one of the old actors, and proceeds to narrate the plot of _The Terror of the Fortifications_. VII THE LATIN QUARTER 1. MÈRE CASIMIR “Il était une fois.”