"Monsieur l'Abbé Mirabelle," resumed Madame Doulce, "is a priest of the highest distinction——"
"Monsieur Marc, are you particularly keen on your pale-gold sky?" inquired the stage manager. "Go on, Madame Doulce, go on, I am listening to you."
"And exquisitely polite. He made a delicate allusion to the indiscretions of the newspapers——"
At this moment Monsieur Marchegeay, the stage manager, burst into the room. His green eyes were glittering, and his red moustache was dancing like a flame. The words rolled off his tongue:
"They are at it again! Lydie, the little super, is screaming like a stoat on the stairs. She says Delage tried to violate her. It's at least the tenth time in a month that she has come out with that story. This is an infernal nuisance!"
"Such conduct cannot be tolerated in a house like this," said Pradel. "You'll have to fine Delage. Pray continue, Madame Doulce."
"Monsieur l'Abbé Mirabelle explained to me in the clearest manner that suicide is an act of despair."
But Constantin Marc was inquiring of Pradel with interest, whether Lydie, the little super, was pretty.
"You have seen her in La Nuit du 23 octobre; she plays the woman of the people who, in the Plaine de Grenelle, is buying wafers of Madame Ravaud."
"A very pretty girl, to my thinking," said Constantin Marc.