aid simply.

And with that there ensued a fresh silence. At bottom he didn't care a
pin about it. That great thing Nana playing the duchess might possibly
prove amusing! Besides, now that this had happened he had Muffat well in
his grasp. Accordingly he was not long in coming to a decision, and so
he turned round and called out:

"Fauchery!"

The count had been on the point of stopping him. But Fauchery did not
hear him, for he had been pinned against the curtain by Fontan and was
being compelled to listen patiently to the comedian's reading of
the part of Tardiveau. Fontan imagined Tardiveau to be a native of
Marseilles with a dialect, and he imitated the dialect. He was repeating
whole speeches. Was that right? Was this the thing? Apparently he was
only submitting ideas to Fauchery of which he was himself uncertain, but
as the author seemed cold and raised various objections, he grew angry
at once.

Oh, very well, the moment the spirit of the part escaped him it would be
better for all concerned that he shouldn't act it at all!

"Fauchery!" shouted Bordenave once more.

Thereupon the young man ran off, delighted to escape from the actor, who
was wounded not a little by his prompt retreat.

"Don't let's stay here," continued Bordenave. "Come this way,
gentlemen."

In order to escape from curious listeners he led them into the property
room behind the scenes, while Mignon watched their disappearance in some
surprise. They went down a few steps and entered a square room, whose
two windows opened upon the courtyard. A faint light stole through the
dirty panes and hung wanly under the low ceiling. In pigeonholes and
shelves, which filled the whole place up, lay a collection of the most
varied kind of bric-a-brac. Indeed, it suggested an old-clothes shop
in the Rue de Lappe in process of selling off, so indescribable was the
hotchpotch of plates, gilt pasteboard cups, old red umbrellas, Italian
jars, clocks in all styles, platters and inkpots, firearms and squirts,
which lay chipped and broken and in unrecognizable heaps under a layer
of dust an inch deep. An unendurable odor of old iron, rags and damp
cardboard emanated from the various piles, where the debris of forgotten
dramas had been collecting for half a century.

"Come in," Bordenave repeated. "We shall be alone, at any rate."

The count was extremely embarrassed, and he contrived to let the manager
risk his proposal for him. Fauchery was astonished.