“Is he so rich that he can afford to write poetry?” asked Florine.
“Poor as Job,” said Lucien.
“It is a great temptation for some of us,” said the actress.
Just then the author of the play suddenly entered, and Lucien beheld M. du Bruel, a short, attenuated young man in an overcoat, a composite human blend of the jack-in-office, the owner of house-property, and the stockbroker.
“Florine, child,” said this personage, “are you sure of your part, eh? No slips of memory, you know. And mind that scene in the second act, make the irony tell, bring out that subtle touch; say, ‘I do not love you,’ just as we agreed.”
“Why do you take parts in which you have to say such things?” asked Matifat.
The druggist’s remark was received with a general shout of laughter.
“What does it matter to you,” said Florine, “so long as I don’t say such things to you, great stupid?—Oh! his stupidity is the pleasure of my life,” she continued, glancing at the journalist. “Upon my word, I would pay him so much for every blunder, if it would not be the ruin of me.”
“Yes, but you will look at me when you say it, as you do when you are rehearsing, and it gives me a turn,” remonstrated the druggist.
“Very well, then, I will look at my friend Lousteau here.”