The Count de
Vandeuvres carried Blanche off. But by this time Nana's name was echoing
more loudly than ever round the four walls of the entrance hall amid
yearnings sharpened by delay. Why didn't the play begin? The men pulled
out their watches; late-comers sprang from their conveyances before
these had fairly drawn up; the groups left the sidewalk, where the
passers-by were crossing the now-vacant space of gaslit pavement,
craning their necks, as they did so, in order to get a peep into the
theater. A street boy came up whistling and planted himself before a
notice at the door, then cried out, "Woa, Nana!" in the voice of a tipsy
man and hied on his way with a rolling gait and a shuffling of his old
boots. A laugh had arisen at this. Gentlemen of unimpeachable appearance
repeated: "Nana, woa, Nana!" People were crushing; a dispute arose at
the ticket office, and there was a growing clamor caused by the hum of
voices calling on Nana, demanding Nana in one of those accesses of silly
facetiousness and sheer animalism which pass over mobs.
But above all the din the bell that precedes the rise of the curtain
became audible. "They've rung; they've rung!" The rumor reached the
boulevard, and thereupon followed a stampede, everyone wanting to pass
in, while the servants of the theater increased their forces.
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