Jansoulet quickly remarked the sensation caused by his presence in the theatre. Being accustomed to such exhibitions of curiosity, he usually responded to them without the least embarrassment, with his kindly, expansive smile; but this time the manifestation was unfriendly, almost insulting. "What!--is that he?" "There he is!" "What impudence!" Such exclamations went up from the orchestra stalls, mingled with many others. The seclusion and retirement in which he had taken refuge for the past few days had left him in ignorance of the public exasperation in his regard, the sermons, the dithyrambs with which the newspapers were filled on the subject of his corrupting wealth, articles written for effect, hypocritical verbiage to which public opinion resorts from time to time to revenge itself on the innocent for all its concessions to the guilty. It was a terrible disappointment, which caused him at first more pain than anger. Deeply moved, he concealed his distress behind his opera-glass, turning three-fourths away from the audience and giving close attention to the slightest details of the performance, but unable to avoid the scandalized scrutiny of which he was the victim, and which made his ears ring, his temples throb, and covered the dimmed lenses of his opera-glass with multi-colored circles, whirling about in the first vagaries of apoplexy. When the act came to an end and the curtain fell, he remained, without moving, in that embarrassed attitude; but the louder whispering, no longer restrained by the stage dialogue, and the persistency of certain curious persons who changed their seats in order to obtain a better view of him, compelled him to leave his box, to rush out into the lobby like a wild beast fleeing from the arena through the circus. Under the low ceiling, in the narrow circular passage common in theatre lobbies, he stumbled upon a compact crowd of dandies, newspaper men, women in gorgeous hats, tightly laced, laughers by trade, shrieking with idiotic laughter as they leaned against the wall. From the open boxes, which sought a breath of fresh air from that swarming, noisy corridor, issued broken, confused fragments of conversation: "A delightful play. It is so fresh and clean!" "That Nabob! What insolence!" "Yes, it really is very restful. One feels the better for--" "How is it he hasn't been arrested yet?" "A very young man, it seems; this is his first play." "Bois-l'Hery at Mazas!--It isn't possible. There's the marchioness just opposite us in the first gallery, with a new hat." "What does that prove? She's plying her trade of _lanceuse_. That's a very pretty hat, by the way--the colors of Desgranges' horse." "And Jenkins? What has become of Jenkins?" "At Tunis with Felicia. Old Brahim saw them both. It seems that the bey has taken a decided liking to the pearls." "_Bigre!_" Farther on, sweet voices whispered: "Go, father, do go. See how entirely alone he is, poor man." "But I don't know him, children."