"You are passing the pay-box," said he.
"I never pay," was the reply, in a tone of importance.
When he approached the check-takers they bowed, and one of them held out his hand. The journalist asked: "Have you a good box?"
"Certainly, Monsieur Forestier."
He took the ticket held out to him, pushed the padded door with its leather borders, and they found themselves in the auditorium.
Tobacco smoke slightly veiled like a faint mist the stage and the further side of the theater. Rising incessantly in thin white spirals from the cigars and pipes, this light fog ascended to the ceiling, and there, accumulating, formed under the dome above the crowded gallery a cloudy sky.
In the broad corridor leading to the circular promenade a group of women were awaiting new-comers in front of one of the bars, at which sat enthroned three painted and faded vendors of love and liquor.
The tall mirrors behind them reflected their backs and the faces of passers-by.
Forestier pushed his way through the groups, advancing quickly with the air of a man entitled to consideration.
He went up to a box-keeper. "Box seventeen," said he.