It was already the 17th. The preparations were proceeding hurriedly, amidst extreme confusion. The little company of actors were rehearsing their play in the long Renaissance gallery, the panels of whose ceiling bore, in an ingenious variety of design, the peacock of Bernard de Paves tied by the foot to the lute of Nicolette de Vaucelles.
Monsieur Germaine was accompanying the singers on the piano, while in the park the carpenters were putting together the framework of the booths with great blows of their mallets. Largillière, from the Opéra-Comique, was acting as stage manager.
“Your turn, Duchess.”
Monsieur Germaine’s hands, stripped of their rings, excepting one that remained on his thumb, struck a chord.
“La, la.”
But, taking the glass handed her by young Bonmont, the Duchess cried:
“Let me drink my cocktail first.”
When she had finished, Largillière repeated:
“Come, Duchess.”
“Tout me seconde,