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Muffat sat silent, his eyes fixed on the ground. He had remained voluntarily ignorant of Fauchery's assiduous attentions to the countess, and time had lulled his suspicions and set him hoping that he had been deceiving himself during that fearful night passed in a doorway of the Rue Taitbout. But he still felt a dull, angry repugnance to the man. "Well, what then? Fauchery isn't the devil!"
"And yet," I suggested, "is there any one whose opinion would be of greater interest to reading men as well as to women? I had even thought of beginning with him." "The devil you had!" interrupted the editor-in-chief. "It is one of Fauchery's principles not to see any reporters. I have sent him ten if I have one, and he has shown them all the door.
Presently, when they had returned into Fauchery's neighborhood, he said carelessly enough: "Listen, since we're all of one mind, we'll finish the matter at once. Here's Mignon, just when he's wanted." For some little time past Mignon had been prowling in the adjoining passage, and the very moment Bordenave began talking of a modification of their agreement he burst into wrathful protest.
No blackguard of a man would ever have sacrificed himself like that without trumpeting the fact abroad. Nevertheless, she was struck by one thing: Labordette had given her exactly the same advice as Francis had given her. That evening when Fontan came home she questioned him about Fauchery's piece. The former had been back at the Varietes for two months past.
Nana, puffed up by her novel role of hostess, thanked her and was veritably confused. Nevertheless, from the moment of Fauchery's arrival she appeared preoccupied, and directly she could get near him she asked him in a low voice: "Will he come?"
He had taken an hour amid his painful mental sufferings to arrive at a place he could have reached in five minutes. One morning a month ago he remembered going up to Fauchery's rooms to thank him for a notice of a ball at the Tuileries, in which the journalist had mentioned him.
In the third act it would even be possible to lengthen a scene out." "Well then, I want the last speech of all," the comedian declared. "I certainly deserve to have it." Fauchery's silence seemed to give consent, and Prulliere, still greatly agitated and discontented despite everything, put his part back into his pocket.
It seemed to me it may possibly have been an illusion that at the announcement of the so-called title of my so-called novel, a smile and a shadow flitted over Fauchery's eyes and mouth. A vision of the two young women I had met in the hall came back to me. Was the author of so many great masterpieces of analysis about to live a new book before writing it?
He informed her that Bordenave was busy mounting a play of Fauchery's containing a splendid part for her. "What, a play with a part!" she cried in amazement. "But he's in it and he's told me nothing about it!" She did not mention Fontan by name. However, she grew calm again directly and declared that she would never go on the stage again.
And he reconstructed Fauchery's article on the poisoned fly, and he came before the house and declared that morals such as these, which could only be paralleled in the days of the later Roman Empire, rendered society an impossibility; that did him good. But the shadows had meanwhile disappeared. Doubtless they had gone to bed again, and, still watching, he continued waiting where he was.
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