aces for the first act!"

The cry of the stage-manager, standing with his hand raised to his
mouth to form a trumpet, at the foot of the staircase behind the scenes,
echoes under the roof, rises and rolls along, to be lost in the depths
of corridors full of the noise of doors banging, of hasty steps, of
desperate calls to the _coiffeur_ and the dressers; while there appear
one by one on the landings of the various floors, slow and majestic,
without moving their heads for fear of disturbing the least detail
of their make-up, all the personages of the first act of _Revolt_, in
elegant modern ball costumes, with the creaking of new shoes, the silken
rustle of the trains, the jingling of rich bracelets pushed up the arm
while gloves are being buttoned. All these people seem excited, nervous,
pale beneath their paint, and under the skilfully prepared satin-like
surface of the shoulders, tremors flutter like shadows. Dry-mouthed,
they speak little. The least nervous, while affecting to smile, have
in their eyes and voice the hesitation that marks an absent mind--that
apprehension of the battle behind the foot-lights which is ever one of
the most powerful attractions of the comedian's art, its piquancy, its
freshness.

The stage is encumbered by the passage to and fro of machinists and
scene-builders hastening about, running into one another in the dim,
pallid light falling from above, which will give place directly, as soon
as the curtain rises, to the dazzling of the foot-lights. Cardailhac is
there in his dress-coat and white tie, his opera hat on one side, giving
a final glance to the arrangement of the scenery, hurrying the workmen,
complimenting the _ingenue_ who is waiting dressed and ready, beaming,
humming an air, looking superb. To see him no one would ever guess the
terrible worries which distract him. He is compromised by the fall of
the Nabob--which entails the loss of his directorate--and is risking his
all on the piece of this evening, obliged, if it be not a success, to
leave the cost of this marvellous scenery, these stuffs at a hundred
francs the yard, unpaid. It is a fourth bankruptcy that stares him in
the face. But, bah! our manager is confident. Success, like all the
monsters that feed on men, loves youth; and this unknown author, whose
name is appearing for the first time on a theatre bill, flatters the
gambler's superstitions.

Andre Maranne feels less confident. As the hour for the production of
the