Under the stairs in a sort
of deep cupboard she kept a little bar, whither the supers were wont to
descend for drinks between the acts, and seeing that just at that moment
there were five or six tall lubbers there who, still dressed as Boule
Noire masqueraders, were dying of thirst and in a great hurry, she lost
her head a bit. A gas jet was flaring in the cupboard, within which it
was possible to descry a tin-covered table and some shelves garnished
with half-emptied bottles. Whenever the door of this coalhole was opened
a violent whiff of alcohol mingled with the scent of stale cooking in
the lodge, as well as with the penetrating scent of the flowers upon the
table.
"Well now," continued the portress when she had served the supers, "is
it the little dark chap out there you want?"
"No, no; don't be silly!" said Simonne. "It's the lanky one by the side
of the stove. Your cat's sniffing at his trouser legs!"
And with that she carried La Faloise off into the lobby, while the
other gentlemen once more resigned themselves to their fate and to
semisuffocation and the masqueraders drank on the stairs and indulged in
rough horseplay and guttural drunken jests.
On the stage above Bordenave was wild with the sceneshifters, who seemed
never to have done changing scenes.
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