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She knew that all her sister-actresses, Ellen Midi, Duvernet, Herschell, Falempin, Stella, Marie-Claire, were trying to take Ligny from her.
An organdie neckerchief was crossed over her bosom and held at the waist by a broad purple girdle. Her white and pink striped petticoat, which flowed as though wet and clinging from the somewhat high waist, made her appear very tall. She looked like a figure in a dream. "Delage, too," she said, "rags one in the most rotten way. Have you heard what he did to Marie-Claire?
She's got a cheek of her own to show herself here, don't you think?" Marie-Claire whispered an extraordinary piece of news into Durville's ear: "They say he committed suicide. Well, there's not a word of truth in it He didn't commit suicide at all. And the proof of it is that he is being buried with the rites of the Church." "What then?" inquired Durville.
On the stage, Marie-Claire, hanging upon Durville's neck, was exclaiming: "Go! Victorious or defeated, in good or evil fortune, your glory will be equally great. Come what may, I shall know how to show myself the wife of a hero." "That will do, Madame Marie-Claire!" said Pradel.
Madame Marie-Claire, come forward a little, so that I may teach you how to curtsy." He had a hundred eyes, a hundred mouths, and arms and legs everywhere. In the house, Romilly was shaking hands with Monsieur Gombaut, of the Academy of Moral Sciences, who had dropped in as a neighbour.
"I am giving this reading for the benefit of the three poor orphans left by Lacour, the actor, who died so sadly of consumption this winter. I am counting on you, my darlings, to dispose of some tickets for me." "All the same, she really is ridiculous, Marie-Claire!" said Nanteuil. Some one scratched at the door of the box.
They were all there, Madame Ravaud, Madame Doulce, Ellen Midi, Duvernet, Herschell, Falempin, Stella, Marie-Claire, Louise Dalle, Fagette, Nanteuil, kneeling, robed in black, like elegiac figures. Some of the women were reading their missals. Some were weeping.
Still unaware that all things fall into oblivion, and are lost in the swift current of our days, that all our actions flow like the waters of a river, between banks that have no memory, she pondered, irritated and dejected, at the feet of Jean Racine, who understood her grief. "Just look at her," said Madame Marie-Claire to young Delage. "She wants to cry. I understand her.
"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.
She had also surprised the oldest actress of the theatre, their excellent mother Ravaud, in a corridor, baring, at Ligny's approach, all that was left to her, her magnificent arms, which had been famous for forty years. Fagette, with disgust, and the tip of a gloved finger, called Nanteuil's attention to the scene through which Durville, old Maury and Marie-Claire were struggling.
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