Monsieur Glumeau had risen as light as a feather, he was not conscious of the slightest ailment, and he continued to dance through his rôles; frequently confusing that of the tyrant Sacripandos with that of Pincette in the farce. But, after all, it was probable that the audience would not detect that confusion. As he was hurrying to the wood, to cast an eye over his stage, he met his wife, who was returning from a visit to the best caterer in the neighborhood.
“Well, my dear love, we are lucky, we are going to have splendid weather, weather which seems to have been made for us.”
“Yes, thank God! it is fine; but I can’t do any more; I am fagged out already; I doubt if I shall be able to stand up to-night.”
“Why fatigue yourself so? Haven’t you your maid, and the gardener and his wife to do whatever you want?”
“Oh, yes! that would be very nice; things would go splendidly this evening if I trusted to those people! The gardener’s wife is so stupid, she has already broken three lamp chimneys and a globe! Her husband is a little drunk already; if he keeps on he will be in fine condition to-night!”
“Don’t worry, I will speak to him. But what have you left to do? The supper is to consist almost entirely of cold dishes; you arranged all that in advance, and the caterer knows what he is to send.”
“And the dinner, monsieur—isn’t it necessary to think of that, too?”
“The dinner? Oh! there will only be our intimate friends, and there is no need of ceremony about that.”
“No ceremony, if you please, but there will be at least fourteen or fifteen of us, and it seems to me that we need something for that number!”
“I have difficulty in remembering my song to the tune of Le Maçon: ‘Je vais la revoir! Ha! ha!’—Never mind, I will execute a pirouette.—I say, Lolotte, I look pretty well, don’t I? Isn’t my complexion clear?”