se among many others. The
retirement in which he had taken refuge for some days past had left him
in ignorance of the public exasperation, of the homilies, the statements
broadcast in the newspapers, with the corrupting influence of his wealth
as their text--articles written for effect, hypocritical phraseology
by the aid of which opinion avenges itself from time to time on the
innocent for all its own concessions to the guilty. It was a terribly
embarrassing exhibition, which gave him at first more sorrow than anger.
Deeply moved, he hid his emotion behind his opera-glass, fixing his
attention on the least details of the stage arrangements, giving a
three-quarters view of his back to the house, but unable to escape the
scandalous observation of which he was the victim and which made his
ears buzz, his temples beat, the dulled lenses of his opera-glass
become full of those whirling multi-coloured circles which are the first
symptom of brain disorder.

When the curtain fell at the end of the first act he remained
motionless, in the same attitude of embarrassment; the whisperings, now
more distinct when they were no longer held in check by the dialogue on
the stage, the pertinacity of certain inquisitive people changing their
places in order to get a better view of him, obliged him to leave his
box and to beat a hurried retreat into the corridors, like a wild beast
escaping across a circus from the arena. Beneath the low ceiling in
the narrow circular passage of the theatre corridors, he found
himself suddenly in the midst of a dense crowd of emasculate youths,
journalists, tightly laced women wearing their hats, laughing as part
of their trade, their backs against the wall. From box-doors opened for
air, mixed and disjointed fragments of conversation were escaping:

"A delightful piece. It is fresh; it is good."

"That Nabob! What impudence!"

"Yes, indeed, it is restful. One feels better for it."

"How is it that he has not yet been arrested?"

"Quite a young man, it seems. It is his first play."

"Bois l'Hery at Mazas! It is impossible. Why, there is the marquise
opposite, in the balcony, with a new hat."

"What does that prove? She is at her business as a stager of new
fashions. It is very pretty, that hat. In Desgrange's racing colours."

"And Jenkins? What is Jenkins doing?"

"At Tunis, with Felicia. Old Brahim has seen them both. It seems that
the Bey has begun to take the pearls."

"The deuce he has!"