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"Go on, Madame Doulce, go on, I am listening to you." "And exquisitely polite. He made a delicate allusion to the indiscretions of the newspapers " At this moment Monsieur Marchegeay, the stage manager, burst into the room. His green eyes were glittering, and his red moustache was dancing like a flame. The words rolled off his tongue: "They are at it again!

"All the same, we must have a religious service," said Romilly, with all the authority of a stage-manager. "Quite so," said Madame Doulce. Madame Marie-Claire, deeply exercised in her mind, was of opinion that the priests could be compelled to say a Mass. "Let us keep cool," said Pradel, caressing his venerable beard.

"It really can't be done, my child Well, after all, look in to-morrow." Having dismissed them, he inquired, as he signed some letters: "Well, Madame Doulce, what news do you bring?" Constantin Marc, appearing with Nanteuil, hastily exclaimed: "What about my scenery, Monsieur Pradel?" Thereupon he described for the twentieth time the landscape, upon which the curtain ought to rise.

Madame Doulce, thus invited by Nanteuil's silence, murmured some additional words of praise: "...excellent touches, genuinely individual business!" "You really think so, Madame Doulce? Glad to hear it, for I don't feel the part. And then that great Perrin woman upsets me altogether. It is a fact.

Mechanical applause broke out at the back of the theatre, and a few members of the orchestra, murmuring inaudibly, clapped their hands slowly and noiselessly. Nanteuil had just given her last reply to Jeanne Perrin. "Brava! Brava! She is delightful, dear little woman!" sighed Madame Doulce. In his jealous anger, Chevalier was disloyal.

"So much the better?" exclaimed Nanteuil. "For I must tell you that the person who did invent it is not particularly brilliant." "He is dead," remarked Trublet. Nanteuil once more expressed her disgust of her fellow-actress, but Madame Doulce, who was prudent and occasionally took déjeuner with Jeanne Perrin, changed the subject. "Well, my darling, so you've got the part of Angélique.

"Do look at Fagette," said Nanteuil. "She is charming in that blue Marie-Louise dress trimmed with chinchilla." Madame Doulce brought out from under her furs a stack of tickets already soiled through having been too frequently offered.

Her impatient fingers rejected Madame Doulce, bedecked with lace, Fagette, radiant, her hair dissolving in its own brilliance; Tony Meyer, with close-set eyes and a nose drooping over his lips; Pradel, with his flourishing beard; Trublet, bald and snub-nosed; Monsieur Bondois, with timorous eye and straight nose set above a heavy moustache.

"Why do they insist on my being nothing but an ingénue?" inquired Nanteuil, who wanted to play the woman in love, the brilliant coquette, and every part a woman could play. "That is quite natural," persisted Madame Doulce. "Comedy is an imitative art; and you imitate an art all the better for not feeling it yourself." "Do not delude yourself, my child," said the doctor to Félicie.

Madame Doulce replied in a very low tone and as if reluctantly: "Because he committed suicide." "We must see to this," said Pradel. Romilly displayed an eager desire to be of service. "The curé knows me," he said. "He is a very decent fellow. I'll just run over to Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, and I'd be greatly surprised if " Madame Doulce shook her head sadly: "All is useless."