The next evening, at half-past seven, I went, according to my usual custom, to order the box-office to be opened, and the public allowed admission. The performance would commence at eight precisely.
I found my manager quite alone—not a soul had arrived yet. Still, that did not prevent him greeting me with a radiant air—though that was his normal condition.
“No one has yet come to the theatre,” he said, rubbing his hands, as if giving me first-rate intelligence; “but that is a good sign.”
“The deuce it is! Come, my dear Génet, I must have that proved.”
“It is easy enough to understand. You must have noticed, sir, that at our former performances we only had the country gentry.”
“Nothing proves it was so; still, I will allow it. Now go on.”
“Well, it is very simple. The tradespeople have not come to see you yet, and I expect them to-night. They are always so busy, that they usually defer a pleasure till the last moment. Have patience, and you will soon see the rush we shall have to contend against.”
And he looked towards the entrance door like a man perfectly convinced that his predictions would be fulfilled.
We had still half an hour—more than sufficient to fill the room—so I waited. But this half-hour passed in vain expectation. Not a soul came to the box-office.
“It is now eight,” I said, drawing out my watch, “and no spectators have arrived. What do you say to that, Génet?”