p his manuscript against the slender stem of this
arrangement. He wanted to see more clearly, and in the flood of light
his hump was sharply outlined. As to Bordenave and Fauchery, they were
already drowned in shadow. It was only in the heart of this enormous
structure, on a few square yards of stage, that a faint glow suggested
the light cast by some lantern nailed up in a railway station. It made
the actors look like eccentric phantoms and set their shadows dancing
after them. The remainder of the stage was full of mist and suggested a
house in process of being pulled down, a church nave in utter ruin. It
was littered with ladders, with set pieces and with scenery, of which
the faded painting suggested heaped-up rubbish. Hanging high in air,
the scenes had the appearance of great ragged clouts suspended from the
rafters of some vast old-clothes shop, while above these again a ray of
bright sunlight fell from a window and clove the shadow round the flies
with a bar of gold.

Meanwhile actors were chatting at the back of the stage while awaiting
their cues. Little by little they had raised their voices.

"Confound it, will you be silent?" howled Bordenave, raging up and down
in his chair. "I can't hear a word. Go outside if you want to talk; WE
are at work. Barillot, if there's any more talking I clap on fines all
round!"

They were silent for a second or two. They were sitting in a little
group on a bench and some rustic chairs in the corner of a scenic
garden, which was standing ready to be put in position as it would be
used in the opening act the same evening. In the middle of this group
Fontan and Prulliere were listening to Rose Mignon, to whom the manager
of the Folies-Dramatique Theatre had been making magnificent offers. But
a voice was heard shouting:

"The duchess! Saint-Firmin! The duchess and Saint-Firmin are wanted!"

Only when the call was repeated did Prulliere remember that he was
Saint-Firmin! Rose, who was playing the Duchess Helene, was already
waiting to go on with him while old Bosc slowly returned to his seat,
dragging one foot after the other over the sonorous and deserted boards.
Clarisse offered him a place on the bench beside her.

"What's he bawling like that for?" she said in allusion to Bordenave.
"Things will be getting rosy soon! A piece can't be put on nowadays
without its getting on his nerves."

Bosc shrugged his shoulders; he was above such storms. Fontan whispered:

"He's af