"It seems not, as it was hissed."
"Faith! I don’t know what sort of a play yours was, but I am sure that it couldn’t be any worse than the one I saw the day before yesterday at Feydeau. Fancy! a perfect rigmarole! all entrances and exits; in fact, it was so stupid, that I, who almost never hiss, could not help doing as the others did. I hissed like a rattlesnake."
Alfred, who for several minutes had been restraining a fresh inclination to laugh, dropped his friend’s arm and gave full vent to his hilarity, while Edouard said to Robineau, with an expression which he strove to render resigned:
"I thank you, monsieur, for having helped to bury my work."
"What? can it be that it was yours?" said Robineau, opening his little black eyes as wide as possible.
"Yes, indeed!" said Alfred, "it was his play that you hissed like a rattlesnake."
"Oh! mon Dieu! how sorry I am! If I could have guessed! But it’s your own fault too; if you had sent me a ticket, it would not have happened. I remember now that there were some very clever mots—some pretty scenes. I am really distressed, Monsieur Edouard."
"And I assure you that I am not in the least offended. What do a few hisses more or less matter?—And in my opinion, a good hard fall is better than to drag along through two or three performances."
"Then you bear me no grudge?"
"Why, no," said Alfred, "you have proved your friendship! he who loves well, chastises soundly! Moreover, the best general sometimes loses a battle. Isn’t that so, Edouard?—Look you, I’ll wager that that has been said to you at least fifty times since the night before last."