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Updated: September 3, 2025
"It's a great deal too much. Alcohol is a poison. If you have a bottle of brandy at home, fling it out of the window." Pradel was pondering. He considered that in suppressing will and responsibility in all human things Dr. Socrates was doing him a personal injury. "You may say what you like. Will and responsibility are not illusions. They are tangible and powerful realities.
And Delage continued: "'Do not blame me, Cécile: I felt for you a friendship dating from childhood, one of those fraternal friendships which impart to the love which springs from them a disquieting appearance of incest." "Incest," shouted Pradel. "You cannot let the word 'incest' remain, Monsieur Constantin Marc. The public has susceptibilities of which you have no idea.
In the depressing majesty of this pallid architecture, beneath the statue of Racine, the leading actors were reading before Pradel, the manager of the house, their parts, which they did not yet know.
I'm hurrying off to the Archbishop's Palace." "Let us get to work," said Pradel. Romilly called to Nanteuil: "Nanteuil! Come, Nanteuil, begin your whole scene over again." And Nanteuil said once more: "'Cousin, I was so happy when I awoke this morning...."
He had favourites, and that caused an outcry. Nowadays, for the better administration of the theatre, he takes them all, even those he has no liking for, even those who are distasteful to him. There are no more favourites. Everything goes splendidly. Ah, he's a director all through, is Pradel!"
As Robert, in the bed, listened in silence, she went up to him and shook him: "Then it's all the same to you if I carry on with Pradel?" "No, my dear, it would not be all the same to me. But nothing I might say would prevent it." Bending over him, she caressed him ardently, pretending to threaten and to punish him; and she cried: "Then you don't really love me, that you are not jealous.
"Agnès, that's a part if you like!" exclaimed Nanteuil. "I have asked Pradel to give it me." Pradel, the manager of the theatre, was an ex-comedian, a wideawake, genial fellow, who had got rid of his illusions and nourished no exaggerated hopes. He loved peace, books and women.
"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.
Under the great void reserved by the height of the roof for the upward flight of prayers the motley crowd of human beings was huddled together like a flock of sheep. They were all there, at the foot of the catafalque surrounded by lights and covered with flowers, Durville, old Maury, Delage, Vicar, Destrée, Léon Clim, Valrosche, Aman, Regnard, Pradel, Romilly, and Marchegeay, the manager.
At one and at the same moment he whispered into the ears of all a few nimble phrases: "Pradel, can you imagine this fellow going and chucking his part, an excellent part, and running off to kill himself? A pumpkin-headed fool! Blows out his brains just two days before the first night. Compels us to replace him and sets us back a week. What an imbecile! A rotten bad egg.
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