And in the middle of this untidy, ill-kept storeroom sat four
fashionable, white-gloved society men. They occupied as many ancient
straw-bottomed chairs and, with an expression at once patient and
submissive, kept sharply turning their heads in Mme Bron's direction
every time she came down from the theater overhead, for on such
occasions she was the bearer of replies. Indeed, she had but now
handed a note to a young man who had hurried out to open it beneath the
gaslight in the vestibule, where he had grown slightly pale on
reading the classic phrase--how often had others read it in that very
place!--"Impossible tonight, my dearie! I'm booked!" La Faloise sat on
one of these chairs at the back of the room, between the table and the
stove. He seemed bent on passing the evening there, and yet he was not
quite happy. Indeed, he kept tucking up his long legs in his endeavors
to escape from a whole litter of black kittens who were gamboling wildly
round them while the mother cat sat bolt upright, staring at him with
yellow eyes.
"Ah, it's you, Mademoiselle Simonne! What can I do for you?" asked the
portress.
Simonne begged her to send La Faloise out to her. But Mme Bron was
unable to comply with her wishes all at once.
Pages:
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220