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"A very pretty girl, to my thinking," said Constantin Marc. "Undoubtedly," responded Pradel. "But she would be still prettier if her ankles weren't like stakes." And Constantin Marc musingly replied. "And Delage has outraged her. That fellow possesses the sense of love. Love is a simple and primitive act. It's a struggle, it's hatred. Violence is necessary to it.
If Pradel doesn't let me play Agnès, he can go to the deuce, and his dirty Punch and Judy show too!" Madame Doulce continued to lavish her unheeded precepts. She was an actress of merits but she was old and worn out, and no longer obtained any engagements.
We shall find him at home." Dr. Trublet lived in an old house at the top of the Rue de Seine. Pradel took Nanteuil with him, with the idea that Socrates would refuse nothing to a pretty woman. Constantin Marc, who could not live, when in Paris, save in the company of theatrical folk, accompanied them. The Chevalier affair was beginning to amuse him.
"Monsieur l'Abbé Mirabelle explained to me in the clearest manner that suicide is an act of despair." But Constantin Marc was inquiring of Pradel with interest, whether Lydie, the little super, was pretty. "You have seen her in La Nuit du 23 octobre; she plays the woman of the people who, in the Plaine de Grenelle, is buying wafers of Madame Ravaud."
'But it is inconceivable that beings who possess neither bill nor feathers, who have no wings and walk on two legs, should believe that they, like the birds, have an immortal soul." "All the same," said Pradel, "when I hear the organ, I am chock-full of religious ideas." "Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine."
It became necessary to start all over again. "'Terrible days, do you say, Aimeri...." And so they proceeded, without troubling to understand, but careful to regulate their movements, as if studying the figures of a dance. "In the interests of the play, we shall have to make some cuts," said Pradel to the dismayed author.
A little to the back of the church, with Pradel and Constantin Marc, Dr. Trublet was, in subdued tones, according to his habit, delivering his moral homilies. "Observe," he said, "that they are lighting, on the altar and about the coffin, in the guise of wax candles, diminutive night-lights mounted on billiard cues, and are thereby making an offering of lamp oil instead of virgin wax to the Lord.
"Not at all," said Pradel. "You always attended poor Chevalier. It is for you to give a certificate." Romilly agreed: "Of course, doctor. You are the physician to the theatre. We must wash our dirty linen at home." At the same time, Nanteuil turned upon Socrates a gaze of entreaty. "But," objected Trublet, "what do you want me to say?" "It's very simple," Pradel replied.
I gave him the head of Chevalier, who always seems to be laughing, the brute!" "Will you be quiet there!" yelled Pradel. And the author exclaimed: "Pradel, my dear boy, just pitch all those people into the street." Indefatigable, he was arranging the scene: "A little farther, Trouville, there.
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."
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