“I wish they'd accept me as almoner to your cloister, Mademoiselle,” said Breslot, the comedian; “I'm getting tired of serious parts, and would like a little light business.”
“Am I the style of thing for a superior, think ye?” said Jossard, the life of the “Français,” throwing over his head a lace scarf of one of the ladies, and assuming a demure look of indescribable drollery.
“How I should like to hear Mademoiselle recite those lines in your play of 'Cécile,' Monsieur Bertignac,” said a famous actress of tragedy. “Her face, figure, voice, and air are perfect for them. I mean the farewell the novice takes of her sister as day is just breaking, and the distant bells of the cloister announce the approach of the ceremony.”
“Where's the book?—who has it?” called out three or four together.
“The copies have been all seized by the police,” said one. “Bertignac was suspected of a covert satire on the authorities.”
“Or they have been bought up for distribution by the Society of 'Bons Livres,'” said another; “and Bertignac is to be made Gentleman of the Pope's Antechamber.”
“Here is one, however, fortunately rescued,” said Mademoiselle Mars, producing the volume, which Jossard quickly snatched from her, and began, in pompous tones, reciting the lines, beginning,—
“Sour de mon enfance, si je te quitte pour toujours.”
“An abominable line,” cried one, “and perfectly impossible to give without a bassoon accompaniment for the last word.”
“The epithet, too, is downright nonsense. Why sister of her infancy? Did she cease to be so as she grew up?” said another.