The theatre was packed quite full. The patrician townsfolk took possession of the boxes and stalls, while the plebeians repaired to the gallery. On the stage there was a writing-table, old and dirty, and round it were placed half a dozen chairs, neither new nor clean, for they served as furniture for any "poorly furnished rooms" in a play. The stage was still empty, although the theatre was full, and the whole house was almost in darkness, for what little light there was came through the dusty panes of a window at the back of the stage.
In time one's eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and one could distinguish the people as they entered and proceeded cautiously along the line of boxes, so as to avoid knocking against anybody, touching the craniums of the occupants, in their search for vacant seats.
"There is no room here, Don Rufo."
"Is there no place?" asked the medical man with the vacant smile of the blind.
"No; go up to the stage boxes."
"Come here, Don Rufo; come here," cried some one in the front.
"Is that you, Cipriano?"
And after more pushing and struggling the newcomer managed to get settled. One arrival, more wide-awake than the others, lighted a wax taper, but instantly there arose voices from the gallery:
"Eh, eh! Cat's eyes, Don Juan! When you go at night to Peonza's house you don't have a taper then."
Don Juan hastened to extinguish it, to avoid the insults and shouts of laughter leveled at him by the idle crowd.