“And as for you, child,” said Finot, turning to a pretty girl in a peasant’s costume, “where did you steal these diamond ear-drops? Have you hooked an Indian prince?”
“No, a blacking manufacturer, an Englishman, who has gone off already. It is not everybody who can find millionaire shopkeepers, tired of domestic life, whenever they like, as Florine does and Coralie. Aren’t they just lucky?”
“Florville, you will make a bad entry,” said Lousteau; “the blacking has gone to your head!”
“If you want a success,” said Nathan, “instead of screaming, ‘He is saved!’ like a Fury, walk on quite quietly, go to the staircase, and say, ‘He is saved,’ in a chest voice, like Pasta’s ‘O patria,’ in Tancreda.—There, go along!” and he pushed her towards the stage.
“It is too late,” said Vernou, “the effect has hung fire.”
“What did she do? the house is applauding like mad,” asked Lousteau.
“Went down on her knées and showed her bosom; that is her great resource,” said the blacking-maker’s widow.
“The manager is giving up the stage box to us; you will find me there when you come,” said Finot, as Lousteau walked off with Lucien.
At the back of the stage, through a labyrinth of scenery and corridors, the pair climbed several flights of stairs and reached a little room on a third floor, Nathan and Félicien Vernou following them.
“Good-day or good-night, gentlemen,” said Florine. Then, turning to a short, stout man standing in a corner, “These gentlemen are the rulers of my destiny,” she said, “my future is in their hands; but they will be under our table to-morrow morning, I hope, if M. Lousteau has forgotten nothing——”