“What do you mean? I don’t understand you.”

“This is how it is: the last time that I was with Monsieur de Brévanne, a very long time ago, we played cards, and I lost five hundred francs to him on credit, for I had no money with me. After that, I tried in vain to find the count; he had left Paris suddenly. Now, as I have found his wife to-day, I ask permission to cancel a debt which troubles me. If you will allow me to hand you that amount, you will do me a favor.”

Madame de Grangeville blushed slightly as she replied:

“But I don’t know whether I ought to accept; Monsieur de Brévanne and I no longer have any property in common.”

“Oh! I don’t go into all those details,” replied Monsieur de Merval, as he took from his wallet a five-hundred-franc note and laid it on the table. “I am only paying an old debt which I had on my conscience, and surely an old friend like you would not prevent me from accomplishing that duty.—Adieu, madame, I am obliged to leave you; pray receive the homage of my respect.”

Monsieur de Merval kissed the baroness’s hand and hurried out of the room; as he passed through the reception room, he saw a man pacing the floor with his hat on his head, paying no heed to Mademoiselle Lizida’s entreaties.

Madame de Grangeville had not been deceived by the little fable invented by Monsieur de Merval in order to oblige her; she had said to herself:

“That was very nice on his part; it was a very delicate proceeding; but after all, he is rich; he guessed that I needed money, and he has lent me some; it’s a simple matter.—Lizida! Lizida!”

The lady’s maid hurried into the room, and was stupefied when her mistress handed her a bank note.

“Here, my dear, go out and change this!”

“O madame! five hundred francs! How lovely!”

“Who is that wretched creature outside?”

“Your dressmaker’s husband; he demands the total of the bill, one hundred and twenty-three francs!”

“Take him with you, and pay him.”

“The whole amount?”

“There’s no help for it; his wife works beautifully, and I always need her. Go, and bring back a coupé when you come; I will go out to buy a hat.”

“Yes, madame.—By the way, what about the grocer opposite?”

“What do we owe him?”

“Ninety-six francs.”

Everything was made ready at Monsieur Glumeau’s country house for the festivities which he had announced long before to his friends and acquaintances. The day was fixed, the invitations issued. They had invited four times as many people as the house could hold; but in default of the house there was a garden, and over and above the garden there was a wood of about two acres; the guests who could not find room in the house had their choice between the wood and the garden; in the country there is always some way to arrange matters.

It was in this little wood, enclosed by trellis work, which was supported by stone posts at intervals, that Monsieur Glumeau had conceived the idea of building a small theatre. The stage was supplied with all the accessories: wings, flies, arches, and drop curtain. But when the action of the play took place in a forest, instead of using a rear curtain, they simply used the wings, and the wood itself formed natural scenery, and afforded a lovely prospect which it is impossible to have in the city, even at the grand opera.

The theatre was covered with a board roof, which sheltered the scenery and the actors from possible storms. But as there was no auditorium, as the spectators simply sat or stood under the trees, in front of the drop curtain, it was most important for them that the weather should be fine, for rain would very speedily drive the audience away and leave the auditorium empty.

The friends who had accepted parts in the plays that were to be given came twice a week to pass the day with Glumeau, in order to rehearse.

But when they realized that the great day was near at hand, they began to say to themselves: “We really must rehearse.”—Monsieur Glumeau, who had been very well for some time, was in a charming mood and fluttered from one to another, looking at his feet; he gave counsel and advice to everyone, and insisted that they should introduce spoken pantomime in the plays and dancing in the pantomime; he transformed everything into a ballet.

The performance decided upon consisted of Œil et Nez, a farce in one act, with three characters, to be played by Madame Dufournelle, young Astianax, and Monsieur Mangeot.

This piece, being easy to rehearse, and having almost no mise-en-scène, was almost learned; young Astianax declared that it would go as if it were on wheels, and that it was not necessary to give any more thought to it.

The second play was also a farce: Il y a plus d’un Ane à la Foire.—In this there were seven characters, four men and three women; the men’s parts were entrusted to Messieurs Glumeau, Mangeot, Astianax and Kingerie; the actresses were Mesdemoiselles Eolinde, Polymnie and Mangeot.

But it was for the third play that they reserved all the striking effects, all the surprises, all the finest scenery and most amazing costumes that they had. This play was Roderic et Cunégonde, or L’Ermite de Montmartre, or La Forteresse de Moulinos, or Le Revenant de la Galerie de l’Ouest, an excellent parody of melodramas, in four tableaux, larded, as the book says, with dancing, fighting, manœuvring, conflagrations and destruction.

Those who were to take part in the play were to arrive early, for it was felt that there should be another rehearsal, because there are innumerable things, innumerable details of the mise-en-scène, which one does not notice until the moment of the performance; it is then a little late to rehearse them, but the zeal of the actors makes up for the lack of time.

Monsieur Glumeau had risen as light as a feather, he was not conscious of the slightest ailment, and he continued to dance through his rôles; frequently confusing that of the tyrant Sacripandos with that of Pincette in the farce. But, after all, it was probable that the audience would not detect that confusion. As he was hurrying to the wood, to cast an eye over his stage, he met his wife, who was returning from a visit to the best caterer in the neighborhood.

“Well, my dear love, we are lucky, we are going to have splendid weather, weather which seems to have been made for us.”

“Yes, thank God! it is fine; but I can’t do any more; I am fagged out already; I doubt if I shall be able to stand up to-night.”

“Why fatigue yourself so? Haven’t you your maid, and the gardener and his wife to do whatever you want?”

“Don’t worry, I will speak to him. But what have you left to do? The supper is to consist almost entirely of cold dishes; you arranged all that in advance, and the caterer knows what he is to send.”

“And the dinner, monsieur—isn’t it necessary to think of that, too?”

“The dinner? Oh! there will only be our intimate friends, and there is no need of ceremony about that.”

“No ceremony, if you please, but there will be at least fourteen or fifteen of us, and it seems to me that we need something for that number!”

“I have difficulty in remembering my song to the tune of Le Maçon: ‘Je vais la revoir! Ha! ha!’—Never mind, I will execute a pirouette.—I say, Lolotte, I look pretty well, don’t I? Isn’t my complexion clear?”

“Yes, you are magnificent.—By the way, my dear, I forgot to tell you that I have invited that gentleman who owns the fine estate on the other side of our woods.”

“Who? Monsieur Malberg? that man who never speaks to anybody, who never walks where there is likely to be anybody; in short, who lives in his country house like a wolf, never seeing any of his neighbors?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Why, his whole air, and his dress; and then he employs a mulatto, and that is very distinguished!”

“It doesn’t cost any more than other servants.—‘Je vais la revoir! Ha! ha!’”

“And yesterday, during the day, I happened to meet him in the narrow path, and as he stood aside very politely to let me pass, I said to him: ‘Monsieur, we are to have some theatricals to-morrow in our little theatre in these woods; if it would give you any pleasure to come to look on, we should be flattered to have you in our audience.’—He bowed and replied: ‘You do me much honor, madame, and I shall try to take advantage of your kind invitation.’”

“Oh! he said that, did he? But he won’t come.”

“Perhaps not, but I have an idea that he will.”

“After all, you did well; there is always room in our theatre, and the larger the audience we have, the more they electrify the actors.—‘Je vais la revoir! Ha! ha!’—Tell me what comes next.”

“How do you suppose I know? You should learn your part.”

“They are learning their parts, and it isn’t possible to get near them!”

About noon, the actors began to arrive. There were Dufournelle and his wife; the husband carried an enormous bundle, for the ladies all brought their stage costumes and their ball dresses. Next, Mademoiselle Polymnie appeared with her father, Monsieur Camuzard, who also carried a bundle; then Monsieur Mangeot and his sister, each of them with a bundle.

“Why have you brought so many things,” said Glumeau, “since Chambourdin promised the costumes?”

“Oh, yes! catch us relying on Monsieur Chambourdin!” said Madame Dufournelle; “I have made my own costume; I have the part of a cook, and I have borrowed my servant’s cap.”

Monsieur Camuzard, who was annoyed because no part had been given to him, kept repeating:

“You will be very lucky if someone does not fail you when it’s time to begin. On such an occasion as this, accidents always happen, sudden indispositions, just as they do at the theatre. I offered to take part, but they didn’t want me.”

“But you are to prompt, you know, Monsieur Camuzard; you prompt so well!”

“I am willing to prompt one play, but not three; that is too tiresome.”

Monsieur Camuzard, seeing that the post of prompter was about to escape him, hastily rejoined:

“After all, when I have got started, it won’t be any more trouble to prompt all three plays.”

“Let’s rehearse, my friends, let’s rehearse, let’s not lose any more time,” said Monsieur Glumeau. “The two short pieces go well enough, but Roderic et Cunégonde doesn’t go well at all. There is so much stage play. Astianax, go and get the wooden swords, so that we may rehearse the fights also.”

“Do you expect much company this evening?” asked Madame Dufournelle.

“Well, I should say so! A most select audience; I have invited more than a hundred people, more or less; journalists, artists; I don’t count the people of the village and the neighborhood, who come to see the play. When I don’t allow them to enter, they raise the devil; they besiege the place and break down my trellis.”

“They represent the audience in the upper gallery in the theatres in Paris; they are often the best judges of the performance.”

“Astianax, did you ask your neighbor, Monsieur Jéricourt, to come?”

“Yes, papa, and he will bring one of his friends, a young man you would take for a tailor’s model, he is so well dressed: Monsieur Arthur de Saint-Alfred—no, I am wrong, it is Alfred de Saint-Arthur.”

“I assure you, madame, that he is a very good-looking fellow; at the theatre he never sits anywhere but in the proscenium boxes!”

“As he never sits anywhere but in the proscenium,” said Dufournelle, “he is necessarily a young man of very high station.”

“Let’s rehearse, my friends, let us rehearse.”

“But we are not all here yet, young Kingerie and Monsieur Fourriette the druggist are still missing.”

“I d—d—don’t want to f—f—fight with Monsieur F—F—Fourriette!” said Mademoiselle Eolinde; “he always hits me on the f—f—fingers with his sword.”

“The trouble is that he puts too much action into his part; these druggists are generally very warm, especially as they are almost always from the South. Why is it that the South supplies more druggists and more apothecaries than the North? That is a question I have often asked myself. What do you say upon that point, messieurs?”

“It seems to me easy enough to understand,” said Monsieur Dufournelle. “It’s because sun dials are always placed in the south.”

“Oh! excellent! excellent!”

“I don’t understand the joke,” said Monsieur Camuzard, blowing his nose.

“Take care, madame, take care,” said Dufournelle, “it is very imprudent to accept monsieur’s pastilles; you don’t know what he may have put in them! He is quite capable of giving you something that will make you fall in love with him.”

“If I knew that secret, I should not fail to make use of it,” said Monsieur Fourriette, still offering his box and smiling at the ladies.

“Well! I don’t care, I will take the risk!” said Mademoiselle Mangeot, putting her fingers in the bonbonnière.

“It seems to me,” said Mademoiselle Dufournelle in an undertone, “that she isn’t the one who is taking the risk at this moment!—Well, I will take the risk myself.”

“Let’s rehearse, my friends, let’s rehearse; just see how the time is passing; let us go to the theatre at once, we are all here.”

“All except the three robbers with speaking parts.”

“We will omit that scene.”

“And the child,—we must have the child, we must make sure that he knows his part.”

“Astianax, go and fetch little Codinde, the gardener’s son.”

“The deuce! the fellow looks to me as if he had already had a touch of sunstroke.”

Monsieur Pichet, the gardener, was in fact approaching the company, and as he was quite conscious of the fact that his legs wavered under him, he was walking very slowly to maintain his equilibrium, and was trying hard to keep his head back and his body upright.

“Pichet, go and get little Codinde, your son,” said Monsieur Glumeau; “we want him for the rehearsal; go at once.”

Instead of obeying his master and fetching Codinde, the gardener tried to straighten himself up, and answered in a thick voice:

“It’s impossible, monsieur; it’s impossible! Codinde is just what I wanted to talk to monsieur about.”

“Can it be that anything has happened to him?”

“An attack of indigestion has happened to him; we thought he was going to choke to death; he was purple.”

“The devil take you! Why do you stuff your son so’s to make him sick?”

“It wasn’t us, monsieur; the little glutton stuffs himself. As there’s a celebration going on in the house, he must have found lots of things to eat; bless my soul! children, you know, they ain’t reasonable.”

“And then, too, you set him such an excellent example!”

“Why, monsieur—I haven’t eaten as much as your thumb to-day, saving your presence.”

“I’ve drunk very moderate; besides, wine never upsets me, I’m so used to it.”

“So, Pichet, your son won’t be in condition to act to-night?”

“You had better not rely on him; the little rascal has the fever and it don’t leave him a minute; it’s constantly going and coming.”

“Well, we are in a fix; and it’s too late now to teach anybody else Codinde’s part!”

“Monsieur, if you say so, I can take my boy’s part well enough; I know it, because I’ve been saying it to him all day.”

“You, Pichet,—you take the child’s part?”

“Why,” said Dufournelle, “in a play that is a parody of the melodramas, it seems to me that it will be even funnier to see the part played by a tall fellow like him.”

“Is that your opinion? Then I have no objection.—Can we rely on you, Pichet?”

“Don’t I tell you that I know the part? The child is hidden, the robbers come, and when he sees that they are going to kill his father, he rushes at them like a kid.”

“That’s right, and he says to the robbers: ‘Messieurs, in pity’s name, don’t hurt papa!’—Will you remember that sentence?”

“Yes, monsieur, I tell you I know it.”

“Then go and rest; don’t drink any more before this evening, and be presentable when the time comes for the play.”

The gardener walked away, as proud as a peacock to play the part of a child, and the amateurs hurried to the theatre, where they tried to rehearse as well as possible; but while trying the combat with swords, which brought the play to an end, young Kingerie, playing the part of Malinot, and finding much difficulty in learning the four blows which his adversary, Astianax, did his utmost to teach him, unexpectedly invented a fifth blow which landed on the nose of the son of the family.

Astianax shrieked, thinking that his nose was cut off. The others crowded about him and reassured him; he had suffered nothing worse than a swollen nose and a slight cut upon it. Fourriette made haste to bathe the wounded organ, and thought that with the aid of a compress, which he urged the wounded youth to wear until evening, the nose would resume its normal shape. But young Kingerie was strictly enjoined not to use his sword even for practice.

The dinner hour arrived, and with it four scene shifters from one of the Parisian theatres, whom Glumeau had hired to work the scenery on his stage. They were looking for the theatre.

“What, have you hired men from the theatre?” cried Dufournelle; “why, we would have set the scenes; we would have acted as scene shifters.”

“What worries me is that Chambourdin doesn’t appear. What shall we do?” said Glumeau, looking at his feet. “I relied upon him, and I have no chevalier’s costume.”

“And he promised me, for the part of Roderic, the costume of Robin Hood,” said Astianax.

“Ah! you should do as I do, messieurs,” said the druggist, “and arrange your own costume for yourselves. I have transformed myself into an Italian bandit, and you must tell me what you think of him.”

“Does the action of the play take place in Italy?”

“I don’t know; but what difference does it make, as long as the costume is pretty?”

“Here he is!” cried Mademoiselle Eolinde; “a cabriolet is stopping at the gate, and there’s a big bundle in it. It’s Monsieur Chambourdin.”

“Yes, it is he; good! everything is all right,” said Glumeau; “he is more prompt than usual.”

Despite this advice, the ladies did hurry, and left the gentlemen at the table, in order to try on their costumes. The men took advantage of their absence to drink harder and to give their tongues greater liberty. Dufournelle, who had no part, made the champagne corks pop, saying:

“Come, messieurs, this will give you self-possession, verve! If you’re a little tipsy, you’ll act much better!”

Young Kingerie, who realized the necessity of overcoming his usual timidity, drank several glasses of champagne in rapid succession, and soon his eyes began to start from his head. Monsieur Camuzard drank in order to prompt better; little Astianax, who for some time past had affected very dissolute manners, proposed toasts to the dancers at the Porte-Saint-Martin and to the bareback riders at the Hippodrome. Chambourdin drank to whatever anyone suggested. Monsieur Mangeot drank to the success of the performance. Monsieur Glumeau proposed his own health; and stout Dufournelle, saying nothing, drank four times as much as the others.

But while drinking and laughing and talking, these gentlemen forgot the time; and suddenly little Astianax exclaimed:

It was midsummer, when the days were longest; and so, although it was nearly eight o’clock, the gardens were not yet dark, and they could see outside the gate a large number of persons who had come to see the performance. The ladies were in full dress, because they knew that after the play there would be dancing; the men too had taken pains with their costumes; for while saying to themselves: “In the country there is no ceremony;” they were quite as anxious to please there as in the city.

“The devil! the devil!” said Chambourdin, ogling the ladies who arrived. “Why, some of them are passably good-looking. Who is that brunette, with high color and her hair dressed à la Fontange? She has a saucy little air which attracts me immensely. Is she a product of the neighborhood?”

“Yes, she belongs here, or at all events she has property here.”

“Has she a husband?”

“She has one who is three times her age.”

“Then, it’s about the same as if she hadn’t any!”

“Sapristi! why on earth didn’t you give her a part in the play, Monsieur Glumeau? I should have been delighted to fence with her, to try the four blows with her.”

Monsieur Glumeau was no longer there; he had gone to receive his guests; but little Astianax, made exceedingly loquacious by the champagne, replied:

“My mother and sister aren’t very fond of Madame Boutillon—that is the pretty brunette’s name; they say that her manner with men is too free.”

“Oh! of course! that’s just like the women; when one of them happens to be a little more lively, a little less prudish, and doesn’t pick her expressions, but says frankly what she thinks, why she is voted bad form at once! she is too free! I snap my fingers at it; I like them that way myself, and I will look after the little Boutillon!”

“Ah! here is Miaulard, messieurs.”

“Good-evening, Miaulard; are you still hoarse?”

“I am getting better, much better.”

“The deuce you say! you seem hardly able to speak to-day.”

“Yes, but the last time I couldn’t speak at all.”

“Ah! here is the baroness, messieurs, the famous Baroness de—de—what’s her name?”

“De Grangeville.—What a beautiful dress!”

“What style! that woman must have been extremely pretty once.”

Astianax ran to meet his friend, who was already looking about with a mocking air at the gardens and at the people whom he saw in them.

“Good-evening, my dear neighbor; it is very kind of you to have remembered my invitation.”

“I should have been very sorry not to accept it, my dear Astianax; I am told that there is always much entertainment at your house, and that the supper is always excellent.—By the way, allow me to introduce my friend, Monsieur de Saint-Arthur.”

“Highly flattered, monsieur; I have had the honor of seeing you with monsieur.”

“True, we met on the boulevard.”

“At the booth of a pretty flower girl.”

“Yes, I am not ashamed to say that I am one of her admirers.”

“I was, but she has fallen infernally in my esteem, since that day—you remember the occasion, Monsieur Jéricourt?”

“Oh! very well, indeed; but after all, why should that make any difference to you? The flower girl is none the less pretty.”

“Of course not! But, you see, I thought that she was innocence personified.”

“You will see it in a moment.—But I see my mother and sister; I will introduce you, messieurs.”

“That long bean-pole is his sister,” whispered Saint-Arthur in Jéricourt’s ear.

“Yes, my dear fellow, and I don’t advise you to give her your arm, you would look like her doll!”

“Never fear, I haven’t any desire to do it. What a pity that Zizi isn’t with us! I see that there will be plenty to laugh at here. How she would enjoy it! I fancy that we shall find their comedy decidedly ridiculous! But what are they going to do with all the chairs they are taking out of the garden? Are they moving?”

“Those are the seats being taken to the theatre,” said Madame Glumeau, graciously saluting the two gentlemen, who, although they had just arrived, were already busily engaged in making sport of whatever they saw; “seats for the spectators, I mean. It would be very kind of you, messieurs, to help a little, to take a few chairs into the wood.”

“What an astonishing woman!” murmured the dandified Saint-Arthur, turning to Jéricourt; “as if we came here to carry chairs!”

“Come, come, Alfred, be decent, or I won’t take you into the country again. Look about; there are some very pretty women here, and I sacrifice myself,—I am going to carry some chairs.”

Chambourdin did not fail to take advantage of the opportunity to approach Madame Boutillon; the pretty little brunette had lost no time in losing her husband very soon after her arrival, and the bald young man hastened to offer her his arm, saying:

“You are looking for monsieur your husband? accept my arm, madame, and I’ll guide you; I know the house.”

“Oh! I am not looking for my husband at all, monsieur,” replied the little lady, laughing; “I am not afraid that he will get lost.”

“Ah! that makes a difference; pray come into the woods, madame; I will take you to the theatre and find you a seat.”

“With pleasure, monsieur.”

At that moment, Madame Glumeau walked toward the gate with a large number of ladies, exclaiming:

“Come to the woods, messieurs, everybody to the theatre; we must take seats, for it will begin very soon.”

The male actors dressed in the billiard room, the ladies in the house. As they were about to begin, they discovered that various indispensable accessories were lacking; thereupon there was much running from the theatre to the house, and from the house to the theatre; one saw nothing but people hurrying back and forth, shouting:

“The basket! we must have a basket!”

“And the letter for Monsieur Astianax!”

“And a table! we must have a table, and a cloth on it!”

“We want a stove,—where’s the stove?”

“There isn’t one; take an empty cask, that will represent a stove well enough!”

“We must have a pie! there’s a supper in the play.”

“Take an empty flower pot, that will do very well for the pie.”

“We want a bottle of champagne.”

“There’s a bottle of Seltzer behind the first wing; that will pop like champagne.”

All these incidents delayed the rising of the curtain; but the audience did not grumble, they laughed and found amusement in all that they saw. At last an amateur musician armed with a violin, and another carrying a clarinet in his arms like a baby, took their seats in front of the stage.

As for the prompter, there being no hole under the stage for him, he stood behind the drop curtain.

“Oh! you will see how pretty it is, madame la baronne, when the curtain rises; we have some lovely scenery: a Pompadour salon, painted by Monsieur Devoir; it is perfectly lovely.”

“What plays are they going to give us?”

“They begin with Œil et Nez, a little farce acted by Madame Dufournelle, my son and Monsieur Mangeot.—But it is very strange,—look about as I will, I don’t see Madame Boutillon; and yet I am very sure that she came with her husband.”

“Who is Madame Boutillon?”

“She is a young lady who lives here in summer, as we do; she had on a very original, very pretty dress.”

“If she has on a pretty dress, it isn’t possible that she has hidden herself; she must be somewhere here.”

“But no, I can’t see her.”

“Hush! they are beginning.”

The three knocks were given. The amateur with the violin started off and played the overture to Fra Diavolo; the clarinet started a few measures later, and played the overture to Jeune Henri; the two men played thus for some time, seeing who could go the faster, persuaded that they would finally overtake each other and play together. The audience opened their ears in amazement, but the wiser ones stuffed theirs.

“Sapristi! what on earth are they playing?” murmured a native, looking at his neighbor, who answered in an undertone:

At last the violin stopped, but the clarinet went on.

“We are not playing the same thing, that isn’t right!” cried the violinist, waving his bow.

The clarinet refused to listen; he went on with his Jeune Henri. Luckily the curtain rose, the actors came on the stage; but as the clarinet kept on, they were obliged to rush upon him and snatch his instrument away.

The little farce would have gone very well if Madame Dufournelle had laughed less, and if Monsieur Mangeot had looked less often at the prompter, which, by the way, did him no good, because Monsieur Camuzard, who filled that post, having drunk too freely of the champagne, found his mouth so dry that he could hardly speak, and passed his time turning over the play-book, and saying to the actor who was waiting for his lines:

“Wait till I find the place; I can’t find it; we have time enough; they won’t ask for their money back!”

Luckily the actors did not follow this advice, and despite the prompter, the first play, which was very amusing, came to an end amid the applause of the spectators.

As soon as the first play was at an end, Madame Glumeau rose, in order to make further search for Madame Boutillon, whose husband was chatting tranquilly with a group of men who had gathered on the outskirts of the audience.

“I say! look at that lady sitting on the branch of a tree!” cried the clarinet at that moment to his neighbor the violin. “There’s an idea for you! if the branch should break, we should see some fine things.”

“That is she! that is Madame Boutillon!” said Madame Glumeau, looking at the person who had deemed it advisable to adopt that position.

Chambourdin, who had taken the little brunette’s arm on the pretext of finding her a good place to see the play, had in fact led her into the wood, of which he knew every nook and corner; but instead of taking her toward the stage, he had taken her in the opposite direction, and had soon found himself with Madame Boutillon in the deserted paths, where they could hardly see their hands before their faces, for lanterns had been placed only in the paths leading to the theatre.

The little brunette, noticing somewhat tardily that her guide was not taking her toward the company, and that he held her arm as if he proposed to waltz with her, chose to stop, saying:

“Where on earth are you taking me, monsieur? I can hardly see anything here.”

“That makes no difference, madame; don’t be afraid I’ll lose my way; I’m like a cat, I can see in the dark.”

“But I am not like a cat, monsieur, and I prefer to walk where it is light; we did not take the path leading to the theatre.”

“This must be the longest one.”

“With you, madame, the longest will always be the shortest.”

“That is very polite of you; but don’t hold me like that, I beg.”

“Suppose we should waltz a bit?”

“You are mad! the idea of waltzing when we can’t see!”

“That makes no difference; on the contrary, you get less dizzy.”

“Really, monsieur, you have some very original ideas; but I want to see the play, and you will be responsible, monsieur, for my not finding a seat.”

“As for that, madame, I will undertake to give you one of the best places.—Come, madame.”

“Oh! you shall not lead me astray again, monsieur; that isn’t the way to go, this is the way.”

The little brunette chose the right road this time, and refusing to listen to Chambourdin, she arrived in front of the stage at last; but as she had anticipated, all the chairs were occupied.

“Well! what did I tell you, monsieur? Come, show me that excellent seat which you reserved for me.”

“This way, madame; I will show you.”

And Chambourdin led the young lady to an enormous chestnut, the branches of which reached out a long way, forming a thousand odd figures.

Madame Boutillon roared with laughter at the suggestion of her escort; but as she was a very original person herself, and as she was especially fond of making herself as whimsical as possible, she accepted the suggestion and replied:

“All right, monsieur, give me a back, and let me climb up to my box.”

The young man at once obeyed, offering his hands and his shoulders. That method of climbing a tree was slightly risqué for a lady, and all the men who witnessed the scene envied the opportunity of the one who acted as Madame Boutillon’s ladder; but she mounted so rapidly, and turned about in the tree with such aplomb, that everybody applauded her ascent. Chambourdin remained standing near the pretty brunette, who used his shoulders as a bench to rest her feet upon; and not for anything on earth would he have abandoned his position.

Madame Glumeau, who had turned toward the chestnut tree, called to Madame Boutillon:

“I did it to have a good view of the play, madame; all the seats below were taken, and I love to have a good place.”

“For heaven’s sake, come down, Madame Boutillon! I will give you my chair, and find another. Come, you can’t stay up in the air.”

“Why not, pray? I don’t see that I am in anybody’s way; and as I am perfectly comfortable, I propose to stay here.”

“She is an extraordinary creature!” said Madame Glumeau, turning to the people near her. “She always wants to do differently from others!”

“If that lady desires to put herself in evidence,” said Madame de Grangeville, “it seems to me that she couldn’t have a better place.”

The mistress of the house left her seat for a moment, and approached the group of which Monsieur Boutillon was one; she made her way to the old gentleman’s side and said to him:

“Monsieur Boutillon, do look at your wife, sitting on the branch of a tree! I am afraid some accident will happen to her. Tell her to get down. I have begged her to but she won’t listen to me.”

“But Monsieur Boutillon, if madame should fall,—it isn’t probable that she has put on trousers to come here to dance.”

“No matter! never fear, I’ll answer for everything.”

“If the husband answers for everything, madame,” observed Jéricourt with a mocking expression, “it seems to me that you have no right to worry!”

“Let’s go and stand by the chestnut tree, Jéricourt,” said little Saint-Arthur, leading his literary friend away.

“Ah! my dear Alfred, you are a sad rake! you want to see the foliage upside down!—Well, I will let you take me where you will.”

As she returned to her seat, Madame Glumeau saw her son rush into the woods with an air of dismay, crying:

“Miaulard! Miaulard! where’s Miaulard?”

“What’s the matter, Astianax? you look all upset. What do you want of Monsieur Miaulard?”

“Upon my word! did he do it on purpose? A pond that isn’t ten feet in circumference! Did he find a way to drown himself in it, too?”

“No, he couldn’t have done it if he had wanted to; there isn’t three feet of water; but the champagne he had drunk—everything together made him sick; he is in no state to act, and Miaulard must take his place.—Tell the audience to be patient.—Miaulard! Miaulard!”

Madame Glumeau returned to her seat and informed the company of the accident that had happened to one of the amateur actors, and requested indulgence for the one who was to take his place. This little speech at an end, the mistress of the house was on the point of resuming her seat, when she saw a gentleman standing against a tree a little apart from the company, and apparently engaged in passing in review the assembled guests.

“Ah! I was very certain that he would come, myself,” said Madame Glumeau, sitting down beside Madame de Grangeville. “It’s a great favor that he does us, for hitherto he has refused every invitation; he hasn’t been anywhere.”

“Of whom are you speaking, madame?”

“Of one of our neighbors, named Monsieur Malberg, who owns a fine estate near ours, and who has the reputation of living like a bear, of never seeing anybody. But he makes a very good appearance, none the less.”

“Over yonder, at the right. Turn a little and you can see him at your ease; he isn’t looking this way now.”

Madame de Grangeville followed the indication that Madame Glumeau had given her and soon she saw Monsieur Malberg, who was quite alone, evidently determined to hold himself aloof from the assemblage, at which he was looking as if he were seeking someone there.

The baroness’s eyes rested upon him; she seemed unable to remove them, and as she gazed at him, her features altered, her face became ghastly pale, and her whole person betrayed the most profound agitation. Madame Glumeau did not observe her neighbor’s confusion, because she was talking with the violin and the clarinet players, who proposed to play something to beguile the tedium of the intermission; but, luckily for the audience, the signal was given and the second play soon began.

Madame Glumeau gently nudged her neighbor, who was still looking toward the right, and said:

“They’ve begun, they’ve begun. You’ll see my husband act now, he has a very important part; he is splendid in it; he cuts a thousand capers. My daughter and my son act also, and the play is very well mounted!”

The second farce was enlevé, as they say on the stage. The substitution of Miaulard for young Kingerie did not injure the play in the least. The former being extremely hoarse, nobody heard him speak, which made it unnecessary for him to know his part. But it was noticed that Monsieur Glumeau, who had danced his part through three-fourths of the play, was much less animated toward the end.

After the farce, as they expected a long intermission, to prepare the scenery for the important play and to give the actors time to change their costumes, there was a general movement among the audience. The men went to walk in the woods, to smoke their cigars, the ladies gathered in groups to chat, and some of them also walked away under the trees, where they were frequently heard laughing heartily,—for what reason, nobody knew.

“This idea of a theatre in the woods is very original,” said Jéricourt to his friend Alfred; “really I did not imagine that it would be so amusing. Come, Saint-Arthur, let us take a turn around the theatre to look at it all at close quarters. Do you intend to stay planted by this chestnut tree? Why, my dear fellow, it would do no good for you to shake the tree, the lady won’t fall like a plum; besides, she has a cavalier at her feet, who doesn’t seem inclined to lose sight of her.”

“But suppose I should climb the tree myself?”

The little dandy allowed his friend to lead him on the stage, where they did not find a single actress, those ladies having gone to dress; but by way of compensation, they saw the young druggist in the costume of Détroussandos, chief of bandits, who was rehearsing his part, his battles, his manœuvres, with Miaulard, the latter having undertaken also the rôle of Malinot, which the unfortunate Kingerie was to have played in Roderic et Cunégonde.

Monsieur Fourriette’s costume consisted simply of flesh-colored tights, over which he had drawn a very short pair of red and black bathing drawers, a jacket, a belt, and a broad-brimmed gray hat with the brim turned down.

“The deuce! there’s a brigand who proposes to show how he is built,” said Jéricourt.

“Is not my costume pretty, messieurs?” asked the druggist, addressing the two young men, whom he recognized as persons to whom he had several times sold pills and other preparations.

“Ah! it’s Monsieur Fourriette; I didn’t recognize you. So you are to act in the next play, are you?”

“Yes, messieurs, I take the part of Détroussandos, the brigand; I am rather well dressed, eh?”

“In other words, you are not dressed at all; your costume is exceedingly indecent.”

“In what respect, pray? I have on tights——”

“Yes, but so tight one wouldn’t think you wore any.”

“Which don’t reach half way down your thighs.”

“Messieurs, I love accuracy in everything; this is the true costume of the Italian brigand.”

“It is lucky that you are not to act in the Creation of the World; you would be capable of representing Adam in the costume of that day.”

“Faith! it would be more exact.”

“I like to think that you will have a cloak at least.”

“Yes, I have one, but I shan’t put it on; I shall simply carry it on my arm.”

“You evidently mean to make conquests.”

“Why not? I saw a little lady just now up in a tree—fichtre! messieurs, such a pretty brunette! such a lovely bird!—Come, Monsieur Miaulard, let’s rehearse our fight with swords. One, two, up; three, four, down!”

“I say, messieurs, it isn’t certain that we shall give the play, after all,” said Monsieur Mangeot, appearing in his hermit’s costume, with a huge piece of cotton batting pasted to his chin, which imitated a white beard to perfection.

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“What has happened?”

“Has some other actor fallen into the pond?”

“I insist upon it’s being emptied at once, so that we shan’t have any more of that.”

“Bah! what’s the matter with him now?”

“You probably noticed that when he was playing Pincette just now, he was in delightfully high spirits at first, and did nothing but jump and pirouette; he sang all his lines, standing on his toes; he was a regular zephyr. But toward the end, as he attempted to pirouette from one end of the stage to the other, although it isn’t very large, it seems that he caught a stitch in his side; he must have twisted himself, or strained some nerve, or perhaps much less than that; but you know Monsieur Glumeau—he thinks he’s dying on the slightest provocation. Ever since then he has been very anxious, he goes limping about, holding his side; he wants to be rubbed every minute, and he’s afraid of inflammation.”

“Well, why don’t they give his part to Chambourdin?”

“Chambourdin! We can’t even count on him to play one of the robbers. He is standing almost under the skirts of a lady who is seated on the branch of a tree. Just now I called out to him: ‘Come and put on your robber’s costume!’ and he answered: ‘I am here at madame’s orders, and bayonets won’t make me leave.’”

“Sapristi! we must give the play all the same!” cried the druggist, who was most anxious to exhibit himself in tights; “doesn’t monsieur feel able to take the part impromptu?”

“Do I wear a handsome costume?”

“You dress as you please.”

“Pardieu! in that case, I like the idea, and I accept; but, as I shan’t have time to learn the part, I will act in pantomime.”

“An excellent idea,—as good as that of giving La Dame Blanche without music.”

“What do you mean, Saint-Arthur, are you really going to act?” asked Jéricourt.

“Yes, yes; I have an idea of a costume that will leave Fourriette’s in the shade! I am going to cover myself with leaves.”

But at that moment they heard young Miaulard shouting:

“Victory! here comes Monsieur Glumeau in his tyrant’s costume, messieurs; that means that he will act.”

“See how he hobbles along and leans over on one side!”

“That won’t do any harm in his part; he will suggest Ligier in Richard the Third, at a distance.”

Monsieur Glumeau came on the stage, saying in a most affecting manner:

“Ah! my friends, I don’t know whether I shall be able to play; this infernal pain doesn’t leave me; it’s terrible!”

“It isn’t anything, Monsieur Glumeau—a strained muscle.”

“Do you think so? Ten thousand bombs! if I only knew that!”

“I am not at all anxious to stand beside him!” muttered Miaulard, walking away.

“Everybody’s ready,” said little Astianax, muffled up in a cuirass and buckler and helmet, and brandishing a lance which was twice as long as himself. “Where is my sister, where is Cunégonde?”

“Here I am!” cried Mademoiselle Eolinde, dressed as a Malabar widow. “I have my p—p—part at the end of my f—f—fingers.”

“Let us begin then.”

“One moment!” said Monsieur Glumeau; “before we begin, I want to drink a glass of anise water; someone has gone to fetch it for me.”

“What is going to happen, great heavens? what is going to happen?” exclaimed Miaulard, walking still farther away from Monsieur Glumeau.

The play proceeded amid general applause and hilarity, until the scene between the child and the robbers who proposed to kill Roderic. The gardener was said to be at his post; and in fact Master Pichet had not forgotten that he was to take his son’s place; but instead of remaining sober as he had been urged to do, the gardener had considered, on the other hand, that in order to act with spirit, and to avoid any feeling of timidity before the audience, it would not be a bad idea to get a little tipsy; and what the peasant called getting a little tipsy, was drinking so much that he could hardly stand on his legs. In that condition Monsieur Pichet had gone upon the stage, and had hidden himself behind the trees from which he was supposed to keep an eye upon the robbers.

“Oh! I know the lines! Don’t you be afraid, mamzelle, I don’t know anything else!”

Meanwhile, the famous scene was reached; Détroussandos and two robbers held their swords over Roderic’s head, and the child did not appear to prevent them from striking.

“The child! the child! sapredié! send on the child!” exclaimed Astianax in an undertone.

“What on earth is that brute doing?” muttered Fourriette, still holding his sword in the air; “is he going to leave us like this for long?”

The gardener did not appear, because when he was once seated behind the trees, he had instantly fallen asleep; stout Dufournelle, who was prompting and who heard him snore, ran to him and shook him roughly by the arm, shouting:

“It’s your turn! it’s time for you to go on! wake up, corbleu!”

The gardener, waking with a start, rubbed his eyes, sprang to his feet, ran on the stage, and threw himself into the midst of the robbers, exclaiming:

“Ah! you villains! you loafers! you mean to beat our young master, do you? Just wait a bit, and I’ll show all three of you something! You’ll see how I do it!”

“Faith, I have often been to the theatre, but I must confess that I never saw such a good imitation of a fist fight as this!”