But on a sudden, in this uncomfortable state of things, the
applause of the clapping contingent rattled out with the regularity of
platoon firing. People turned toward the stage. Was it Nana at last?
This Nana made one wait with a vengeance.
It was a deputation of mortals whom Ganymede and Iris had introduced,
respectable middle-class persons, deceived husbands, all of them, and
they came before the master of the gods to proffer a complaint against
Venus, who was assuredly inflaming their good ladies with an excess of
ardor. The chorus, in quaint, dolorous tones, broken by silences full
of pantomimic admissions, caused great amusement. A neat phrase went the
round of the house: "The cuckolds' chorus, the cuckolds' chorus," and
it "caught on," for there was an encore. The singers' heads were droll;
their faces were discovered to be in keeping with the phrase, especially
that of a fat man which was as round as the moon. Meanwhile Vulcan
arrived in a towering rage, demanding back his wife who had slipped away
three days ago. The chorus resumed their plaint, calling on Vulcan, the
god of the cuckolds. Vulcan's part was played by Fontan, a comic actor
of talent, at once vulgar and original, and he had a role of the wildest
whimsicality and was got up as a village blacksmith, fiery red wig,
bare arms tattooed with arrow-pierced hearts and all the rest of it.
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