“Flaubert has just sent a message to hurry them,” said Jean over his shoulder, as he hastened away to where Flaubert was beckoning him.
“What can I do? What can I do?” moaned the distracted Louis. “You must go and play, but I doubt if they will listen to you for an hour—if only you could sing comic songs!”
Jean glanced round the decorated dining-room, the tables loaded with delicate foods, the rich and exquisite dresses of the women, the carefully valeted men with their well-cut evening clothes, and the weary, hard, cruel faces! It seemed to him as if these over-civilized and pampered creatures had reverted in heart to the lowest level of nature, and as if their life had become the mere struggle of wild beasts for temporary desires—creatures all teeth and claws for their particular morsel of prey! Fortunately at this moment the artists were announced and good-naturedly offered to postpone their own suppers until after the Revue.
The Revue began in the most brilliant manner; everybody on the stage was anxious, self-conscious, and jealous; every one in the audience was amused. These were their best friends making themselves ridiculous under the impression that they were appearing particularly attractive; what more could an audience want? Prince Ivan and Prince Rudolph fulfilled every one’s expectation of the absurd. Prince Ivan managed to fall over a footstool which had been most carefully placed out of his way as far as possible, and swore audibly in the middle of his song. Prince Rudolph forgot his stage directions, and turned his back to the audience so that his voice floated away into somebody else’s garden. Still, considering they were royalty, they managed very well and were immensely applauded.
The femmes du monde danced beautifully; at least they wore practically nothing and moved about the stage very gracefully while some one was playing the piano.
The famous danseuse was overheard remarking that as far as she could see they might just as well have executed that kind of dance in the bathroom to the noise of a hot-water tap; but that was put down to professional jealousy.
The real artists went through their parts perfunctorily and tried to flirt with the society ladies; only they became a little frightened because the society ladies went so far.
Just as every one was beginning to warm to the work, and the author had received his first call for saying something wholly disgraceful about a thinly veiled identity whom everybody guessed, Salvi’s prophecy came to pass. The gathered grey clouds came down with unequivocal ardour; no light unmethodical showers which might be trusted to trickle through the tent unobtrusively, but the unhurried obstinacy of a thorough soak. It was in vain that Jean rushed madly to and fro with rugs and waterproofs to cover the thin roofing. It was in vain that Flaubert expostulated and implored. Every one was desolated, every one had been charmed and delighted; but couldn’t under any circumstances stay and risk a wetting.
Flaubert stood disconsolately in his grand new hall and the crowd of his hastily departing guests swayed all around him. They passed away with the relieved celerity of those who have borne enough. Their perfunctory thin thanks hardly lasted till they reached the door. The fable had ended. The poor frog had puffed his longest and his loudest. Now he had burst, and nobody for a single moment had mistaken him for the ox!
Jean was honestly distressed for Louis, and as for Madame Torialli, she remained there to the very end with such grave and sympathetic eyes, as to make Jean feel almost more sorry for her than for Flaubert. He thought that she looked more than ever like an angel as she stood there among the drooping flowers that looked so curiously like doves; and he did not think that the angel—like the flowers, perhaps—had been rather too long a time in Paris.