raldine by dint of kisses and caresses. As this last lady's part had
not yet been assigned to anyone, Father Cossard had got up to read it,
and he was now figuring away in Bosc's arms and emphasizing it despite
himself. At this point, while the rehearsal was dragging monotonously
on, Fauchery suddenly jumped from his chair. He had restrained himself
up to that moment, but now his nerves got the better of him.

"That's not it!" he cried.

The actors paused awkwardly enough while Fontan sneered and asked in his
most contemptuous voice:

"Eh? What's not it? Who's not doing it right?"

"Nobody is! You're quite wrong, quite wrong!" continued Fauchery, and,
gesticulating wildly, he came striding over the stage and began himself
to act the scene.

"Now look here, you Fontan, do please comprehend the way Tardiveau gets
packed off. You must lean forward like this in order to catch hold of
the duchess. And then you, Rose, must change your position like that but
not too soon--only when you hear the kiss."

He broke off and in the heat of explanation shouted to Cossard:

"Geraldine, give the kiss! Loudly, so that it may be heard!"

Father Cossard turned toward Bosc and smacked his lips vigorously.

"Good! That's the kiss," said Fauchery triumphantly. "Once more; let's
have it once more. Now you see, Rose, I've had time to move, and then
I give a little cry--so: 'Oh, she's given him a kiss.' But before I do
that, Tardiveau must go up the stage. D'you hear, Fontan? You go up.
Come, let's try it again, all together."

The actors continued the scene again, but Fontan played his part with
such an ill grace that they made no sort of progress. Twice Fauchery had
to repeat his explanation, each time acting it out with more warmth
than before. The actors listened to him with melancholy faces, gazed
momentarily at one another, as though he had asked them to walk on their
heads, and then awkwardly essayed the passage, only to pull up short
directly afterward, looking as stiff as puppets whose strings have just
been snapped.

"No, it beats me; I can't understand it," said Fontan at length,
speaking in the insolent manner peculiar to him.

Bordenave had never once opened his lips. He had slipped quite down in
his armchair, so that only the top of his hat was now visible in the
doubtful flicker of the gaslight on the stand. His cane had fallen from
his grasp and lay slantwise across his waistcoat. Indeed, he seemed to
be asleep. Bu