ng them the faces of madonnas with defiant
glances, and the smooth, round faces, expressionless and
unintelligent, of peasant girls. And all were boredly cynical, or,
at least, appeared so.

They began to sing.

"Halt! Start over again!" roared the director of the orchestra, an
individual with a big red face and huge mutton-chop whiskers.

The chorus retired and came back again with heavy step, carrying on
a sort of collective can-canade, but every minute there was heard
the sharp bang of the conductor's baton against his desk and the
hoarse yell--"Halt! Start over again!" And swinging his baton he
would mutter under his nose: "You cattle!"

The chorus rehearsal dragged on interminably. The actors, scattered
about in the seats, yawned wearily and those who took part in the
evening's performance paced up and down behind the scenes,
indifferently waiting for their turn to rehearse.

In the men's dressing-room Wicek was shining the shoes of the
stage-manager and giving him a hasty account of his mission to
Comely Street.

"Did you deliver the letter? . . . Have you an answer?"

"I should smile!" and he handed Topolski a long pink envelope.

"Wicek! . . . If you squeal a word of this to anyone, you clown, you
know what awaits you!"

"That's stale news! . . . The lady said just that, too. Only she
added a ruble to her warning."

"Maurice!" called Majkowska sharply, appearing at the door of the
dressing-room.

"Wait a minute. . . . I can't go with only one shoe shined, can I!"

"Why didn't you have the maid shine them?"

"The maid is always at your service and I can't get a single thing
from her."

"Well, go and hire another."

"All right, but it will be for myself alone."

"Nicolette, to the stage!"

"Call her!" cried Cabinski from the stage to those sitting around in
the chairs.

"Come, Maurice," whispered Majkowska. "It'll be worth seeing."

"Nicolette, to the stage!" cried those in the chairs.

"In a moment! Here I am . . ." and Nicolette, with a sandwich in her
mouth and a box of candy under her arm, rushed for the stage
entrance with such violence that the floor creaked under her steps.

"What the devil do you mean by appearing so late! This is a
rehearsal . . . we are all waiting," angrily muttered the conductor
of the orchestra. .

"I am not the only one you are waiting for," she retorted.

"Precisely, we are waiting only for you, madame, and you know we
have not come here to argue. . .