They went down a few steps and entered a square room, whose
two windows opened upon the courtyard. A faint light stole through the
dirty panes and hung wanly under the low ceiling. In pigeonholes and
shelves, which filled the whole place up, lay a collection of the most
varied kind of bric-a-brac. Indeed, it suggested an old-clothes shop
in the Rue de Lappe in process of selling off, so indescribable was the
hotchpotch of plates, gilt pasteboard cups, old red umbrellas, Italian
jars, clocks in all styles, platters and inkpots, firearms and squirts,
which lay chipped and broken and in unrecognizable heaps under a layer
of dust an inch deep. An unendurable odor of old iron, rags and damp
cardboard emanated from the various piles, where the debris of forgotten
dramas had been collecting for half a century.
"Come in," Bordenave repeated. "We shall be alone, at any rate."
The count was extremely embarrassed, and he contrived to let the manager
risk his proposal for him. Fauchery was astonished.
"Eh? What?" he asked.
"Just this," said Bordenave finally. "An idea has occurred to us. Now
whatever you do, don't jump! It's most serious. What do you think of
Nana for the duchess's part?"
The author was bewildered; then he burst out with:
"Ah no, no! You're joking, aren't you? People would laugh far too much.
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