And Mademoiselle Zizi, the young actress who was so alluring in salacious rôles, and who perhaps had her own reasons for taking the thing to heart, outdid the little man in jocose remarks, and exclaimed with a most significant glance at Jéricourt:
“Ah! that was well done! it was well done! How pleased I am! I shouldn’t be any happier if I were offered an engagement at the Palais-Royal! What a nice little story to tell at the theatre! How they will laugh!—Ah! so our author friends affect flower girls, do they? that is very fine! Instead of sticking to actresses, who at least are in their line, and whom it would certainly induce to put more fire and talent into their parts—Ha! ha! to make love to a flower girl, and to have nothing to show for it! how humiliating!—Poor Jéricourt! he looks as glum as an owl.”
The young author, affecting the utmost tranquillity, simply replied to these attacks:
“If that young flower girl should appear on the stage, I’ll wager that she would eclipse many people who think now that they have a hold on the public!”
“Is that meant for me?” cried Mademoiselle Zizi, throwing a lobster claw in Jéricourt’s face.
“Why, no! of course not!” hastily interposed Saint-Arthur, as the author did not respond. “For you! upon my word! how can you imagine such a thing, when Jéricourt is wild over your talent? For he has told me so a hundred times; he says that you will replace Déjazet.—Haven’t you said that to me often, Jéricourt?”
But the angry author continued to maintain an obstinate silence, which increased the irritation of the little actress.
“In any event,” she cried, “no one will be able to judge of my talent in any of monsieur’s plays; for some time past he has given me nothing but unimportant parts.”
“I give you more than my brother authors do, for they don’t give you any parts at all.”
“What does that prove? That all authors belong to a coterie; that they allow themselves to be inveigled by the prayers of this one and the enticements of that one, or by the advice of the manager, who has his reasons for looking after still another one. O the stage! O you authors! it’s shocking, the injustice we have to put up with; and then they throw a flower girl in our faces! and tell us that she has only to appear to leave us behind! In that case, we’re only stop-gaps, eh?—Oh! it’s an outrage! it’s abominable! O God! my nerves! I am suffocating! I am dying!”