At that moment still another official plunged into the room.
“She is not here yet!” he sighed, as if in extremity.
“It is unfortunate,” Cecil sympathetically put in.
“It is more than unfortunate, dear monsieur,” said the Directeur, gesticulating. “It is unthinkable. The performance must begin at nine-thirty, and it must begin with the garden scene from ‘Faust,’ in which Mademoiselle Malva takes Marguerite.”
“Why not change the order?” Cecil suggested.
“Impossible. There are only two other items. The first act of ‘Lohengrin,’ with Madame Félise, and the ballet ‘Sylvia.’ We cannot commence with the ballet. No one ever heard of such a thing. And do you suppose that Félise will sing before Malva? Not for millions. Not for a throne. The etiquette of sopranos is stricter than that of Courts. Besides, to-night we cannot have a German opera preceding a French one.”
“Then the President and their Majesties will have to wait a little, till Malva arrives,” Cecil said.
“Their Majesties wait! Impossible!”
“Impossible!” echoed the other official, aghast.
Two more officials entered. And the atmosphere of alarm, of being scotched, of being up a tree of incredible height, the atmosphere which at that moment permeated the whole of the vast region behind the scenes of the Paris Opéra, seemed to rush with them into the bureau of the Directeur and to concentrate itself there.