“Sapristi! what on earth are they playing?” murmured a native, looking at his neighbor, who answered in an undertone: “I don’t know, but it’s a terrible mixture.” At last the violin stopped, but the clarinet went on. “We are not playing the same thing, that isn’t right!” cried the violinist, waving his bow. The clarinet refused to listen; he went on with his _Jeune Henri_. Luckily the curtain rose, the actors came on the stage; but as the clarinet kept on, they were obliged to rush upon him and snatch his instrument away. The little farce would have gone very well if Madame Dufournelle had laughed less, and if Monsieur Mangeot had looked less often at the prompter, which, by the way, did him no good, because Monsieur Camuzard, who filled that post, having drunk too freely of the champagne, found his mouth so dry that he could hardly speak, and passed his time turning over the play-book, and saying to the actor who was waiting for his lines: “Wait till I find the place; I can’t find it; we have time enough; they won’t ask for their money back!” Luckily the actors did not follow this advice, and despite the prompter, the first play, which was very amusing, came to an end amid the applause of the spectators. As soon as the first play was at an end, Madame Glumeau rose, in order to make further search for Madame Boutillon, whose husband was chatting tranquilly with a group of men who had gathered on the outskirts of the audience. “As her husband is there, the lady must also be in the audience, unless she has gone on the stage; she is quite capable of it.” “I say! look at that lady sitting on the branch of a tree!” cried the clarinet at that moment to his neighbor the violin. “There’s an idea for you! if the branch should break, we should see some fine things.” “That is she! that is Madame Boutillon!” said Madame Glumeau, looking at the person who had deemed it advisable to adopt that position. Chambourdin, who had taken the little brunette’s arm on the pretext of finding her a good place to see the play, had in fact led her into the wood, of which he knew every nook and corner; but instead of taking her toward the stage, he had taken her in the opposite direction, and had soon found himself with Madame Boutillon in the deserted paths, where they could hardly see their hands before their faces, for lanterns had been placed only in the paths leading to the theatre. The little brunette, noticing somewhat tardily that her guide was not taking her toward the company, and that he held her arm as if he proposed to waltz with her, chose to stop, saying: “Where on earth are you taking me, monsieur? I can hardly see anything here.” “That makes no difference, madame; don’t be afraid I’ll lose my way; I’m like a cat, I can see in the dark.” “But I am not like a cat, monsieur, and I prefer to walk where it is light; we did not take the path leading to the theatre.” “We shall arrive there all the same this way; all the paths lead there.”