th a
tall round coif; it was bound tightly upon her head with a wide blue
ribbon, and its lappets, one above another, fell on either side of her
face, shading her forehead and cheeks. She had transformed herself into
a fiery blonde. Reddish-brown hair fell in curls about her shoulders. An
organdie neckerchief was crossed over her bosom and held at the waist by
a broad purple girdle. Her white and pink striped petticoat, which
flowed as though wet and clinging from the somewhat high waist, made her
appear very tall. She looked like a figure in a dream.

"Delage, too," she said, "rags one in the most rotten way. Have you
heard what he did to Marie-Claire? They were playing together in _Les
Femmes savantes_. He put an egg into her hand, on the stage. She
couldn't get rid of it until the end of the act."

On hearing the call boy's summons she went downstairs, followed by
Constantin Marc. They heard the roar of the house, the mutterings of the
monster, and it seemed to them that they were entering into the flaming
mouth of the apocalyptic beast.

_La Grille_ was favourably received. Coming at the end of the season,
with little hope of a long run, it found favour with all. By the middle
of the first act the public were conscious of the style, the poetry,
and, here and there, the obscurities of the play. Thenceforward they
respected it, pretended to enjoy it, and wished they could understand
it. They forgave the play its slight dramatic value. It was literary, and
for once the style found acceptance.

Constantin Marc as yet knew no one in Paris. He had invited to the
theatre three or four landed proprietors from the Vivarais, who sat
blushing in the stalls in their white ties, rolled their round eyes, and
did not dare to applaud. As he had no friends nobody dreamt of spoiling
his success. And even in the corridors there were those who set his
talent above that of other dramatists. Greatly excited, nevertheless, he
wandered from dressing-room to dressing-room or collapsed into a chair
at the back of the director's stage-box. He was worrying about the
critics.

"Set your mind at rest," Romilly told him. "They will say of your play
the good or bad things they think of Pradel. And for the time being they
think more ill than good of him."

Adolphe Meunier informed him, with a pale smile, that the house was a
good one, and that the critics thought the play showed very careful
writing. He expected, in return, a few complimenta