He knocked at the door with his cane in a way which somewhat contradicted his words. There was a certain amount of authority combined with nervousness in his knock. “Decidedly there is more in it than he is willing to admit,” I said to myself while the door was opening. Two lamps and several candles all lighted had made the atmosphere of the narrow room stifling, and there were in it besides the actress and her dresser, the persons Jacques had mentioned.
I recognized at once the two types of fast men so wonderfully drawn by Forain. One, whom I guessed by his looks to be Tournade, had a fat red face, like that of an overfed coachman, with a heavy and ignoble mouth, brutal, sly and satiated eyes, an incipient baldness, short red whiskers, and the shoulders of a professional boxer. He had a hand, with long fat fingers covered with big rings with large stones in them. Some greedy peasant lives over again in people of this kind, and they bring to a life of elegant debauchery the ignobly positive soul of a usurer’s son with a porter’s temperament. The other one, Figon, was thin and weak, with a never-ending nose, and every tooth in his head was a masterpiece of gold stopping. His eyes were green and twinkling. His sparse hair, narrow shoulders, and worn-out spine were a fine example of the exhaustion found in every race which would justify the anger of the workers against the middle classes if they themselves, who are nourished and corroded by the same vices, were not still less worthy. Both the obese Tournade and the skinny Figon had that way of wearing evening dress, the large gilt buttons on the front, the button-hole, and the hat on the back of the head, all of which constitute the uniform of foolishness or infamy, which the genial caricaturist of the Doux Pays—that jeering Goya of the dismal revels of Paris—has illustrated in his legends, in which its correctness makes its baseness more apparent.
Lighted by the rough lights of the little dressing-room, these two visitors were standing leaning against the wall, handling their canes in a brutish way, and watching the little actress who was at her toilette with a wrapper round her shoulders. She was making up her face for the next act in which she had to appear in disguise, in the costume of the picture after which the play was called, all in blue from the satin of her shoes to the ribbon in her hair. The only long chair and couch had a dress and cloak spread out on them. Evidently the persons had intruded upon her, had not been asked to sit down, and she was about to dismiss them. This sign of her independence caused me keen pleasure. I conceived for these young fellows a violent antipathy—after that how could I doubt presentiments?—especially for the candle maker’s heir, who exchanged a brief greeting with Jacques. Figon made use, to the fashionable author, of all the usual “dear masters,” and eulogies of the piece which were imbecile platitudes.
Jacques received these compliments with his mouth pursed up. Incense is always agreeable however common it may be, even when it is in the vulgar form of tobacco smoke. He nodded his head as Figon concluded.
“You are my two favourite authors, you and——” I will not repeat here the name of the obscene and outrageously mediocre writer with whom the fool associated poor Jacques. The latter gave a start which almost made me burst out laughing, while the actress interrupted—
“Are you going to be quiet?” she said. “I have already told you that I would put up with you if you never spoke of books or the theatre.” When she addressed the young man, he looked at her grinning with stupidity, and she continued: “If Molan does not bring you into his next play, he will be good to you. What do you think he has just told me, Jacques, about Gladys, his old mistress; you know her, the woman you called the 'Gothen du Gotha,’ because of her love affairs with smart people. She left him for a counter-jumper; and now she has left the counter-jumper to live with a lord, so we can recognize her again, M. de Figon says.”
“Come,” Tournade interposed with the air of authority of a smart man who does not wish another man of his own set to be treated with a lack of respect in the presence of ordinary literary men or painters; “you know very well that Louis was joking, and it is not kind of you to chaff him. You would be the first to grieve if you saw his name in some newspaper.”
“First of all,” she replied turning to him, “these gentlemen are not journalists; find out to whom you are talking, my boy. For a day when you have not been drinking, you are missing a fine opportunity for silence. Besides if you are not satisfied you know this is my dressing-room.” She had such an ugly look as she uttered, with increasing bitterness in her voice, these insolent remarks, and her intention of getting rid of these two young men was so obvious, that I had a feeling of shame and almost pity for them, and especially for Tournade, who though he looked like a brutal and vulgar man, had some pride and blood in his veins. He contented himself with answering by a laugh as common as himself and a shrug of the shoulders, while Jacques said—
“We came to pay our compliments to you, little Duchess, but it does not appear to be the evening for politeness.”
“It is always so for you and your friend,” she said, turning to us her face which had become tender once more, and her shining eyes which uttered, proclaimed, and cried aloud this phrase: “Here is my lover whom I love, and I am proud of him; I want you to know him, to quote him; I want the whole world to know him.”