Mancini
Sh! Silence! That is the secret of our sainted mothers! Ha-ha! We are too ancient a stock—too exquisitely refined to trouble ourselves with such things—matters in which a peasant is more competent than ourselves. [Enter an usher.] What do you want? The manager is on the stage.
The Usher
Yes, sir. Baron Regnard wished me to give you this letter.
Mancini
The Baron? Is he there?
The Usher
Baron Regnard has left. There is no answer.
Mancini
[Opening the envelope, his hand shaking]: The devil—the devil! [The usher is going.]