es, 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."

"Even so, just a bow. Something to show him that he isn't utterly
abandoned."

Whereupon a little old gentleman, in a white cravat, with a very red
face, darted to meet the Nabob and saluted him with a respectful
flourish of his hat. How gratefully, with what an eager, pleasant smile,
was that single salutation returned, that salutation from a man whom
Jansoulet did not know, whom he had never seen, but who, nevertheless,
exerted a very great influence upon his destiny; for, except for Pere
Joyeuse, the president of the council of the _Territoriale_ would
probably have shared the fate of the Marquis de Bois-l'Hery. So it is
that in the network of modern society, that vast labyrinth of selfish
interests, ambitions, services accepted and rendered, all castes
communicate between themselves, mysteriously connected by hidden bonds,
from the most elevated to the humblest existences; therein lies the
explanation of the variegated coloring, the complication of this study
of manners, the assemblage of scattered threads of which the writer with
a regard for truth is compelled to make the groundwork of his drama.

Glances cast vaguely into the air, steps turned aimlessly aside, hats
pulled abruptly over the eyes, in ten minutes the Nabob was subjected to
all the outward manifestations of that terrible