The manager had
dashed off to shake hands with a dramatic critic whose column had
considerable influence. When he returned La Faloise was recovering. He
was afraid of being treated as a provincial if he showed himself too
much nonplused.
"I have been told," he began again, longing positively to find something
to say, "that Nana has a delicious voice."
"Nana?" cried the manager, shrugging his shoulders. "The voice of a
squirt!"
The young man made haste to add:
"Besides being a first-rate comedian!"
"She? Why she's a lump! She has no notion what to do with her hands and
feet."
La Faloise blushed a little. He had lost his bearings. He stammered:
"I wouldn't have missed this first representation tonight for the world.
I was aware that your theater--"
"Call it my brothel," Bordenave again interpolated with the frigid
obstinacy of a man convinced.
Meanwhile Fauchery, with extreme calmness, was looking at the women as
they came in. He went to his cousin's rescue when he saw him all at sea
and doubtful whether to laugh or to be angry.
"Do be pleasant to Bordenave--call his theater what he wishes you to,
since it amuses him. And you, my dear fellow, don't keep us waiting
about for nothing.
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