This morning everything had a most dreary and unreal air (for Margot felt it extremely unusual not to be cheerful); even Madame Selba, sleeping heavily upon the pillow with at least three-fourths of the blanket wrapped about her substantial form, appeared slightly unattractive. A dreadful idea occurred to Margot—suppose that Jean should not admire her mother! She reproached herself for thinking it possible, but she did think it possible.
“I wonder if I should have made that arrangement with him,” thought Margot as she prepared the coffee. “In the long run I shall make more, of course, but meanwhile we shall be hard up. I must be more careful, that is all. It is an extravagance this taking of trams; from henceforth I will walk to the theatre, and I will not buy a new hat.” Margot sighed; to buy the new hat would have been flying in the face of Providence, but not to buy it was to fly even more relentlessly in the face of pleasure; and Providence might not have minded as much as Margot.
She tried to sing over the coffee, and she kissed her mother’s very large and rather unappetizing cheek with the heartiness of inveterate affection; and then, with sheer terror in her heart struggling against the dauntless courage of youth, Margot set off to the theatre.
It was an icy winter morning, and it is doubtful what would have happened to her courage if she had not fortified it by an imprudence. On her way she passed a flower-seller and bought a bunch of violets. It was an imprudence, as she confessed to herself, but like many other imprudences it really looked very well, and it gave her a sense of defiance. If she was to have her head cut off, she would at least appear at her best for the execution.
There was a sense of quickened suspense in the very atmosphere of the Odéon. The great empty theatre resounded to the angry explosions of Monsieur Picot, the Stage Manager; the retreating charwomen with dirty buckets almost hurried to get out of his way. The gathered artists in the wings or on the stage seemed dipped in whispering gloom. They were all waiting, it appeared, for Liane, and Liane was late.
Monsieur Picot looked at Margot morosely—she had really done well the night before, several people had congratulated him about it. It did not occur to him to repeat the congratulations; he merely remarked that he supposed she thought he liked wasting his time, for the pleasure of seeing how late feather-headed nincompoops cared to be! She was mistaken if she thought so, because he held everybody to witness that he did not! Everybody had been witnessing it for half an hour and knew in addition that Margot was not wanted till the fourth act, which was not timed to take place for another hour but there was a general assent, and everyone cast looks of scandalized indignation upon Margot.
Then Liane arrived. It at once became obvious that the morning’s work, if it took place at all, would hardly be pleasant.
Liane had a peculiar strained and nervous look in her face, like that of a horse laying back its ears preparatory to kicking the trap to pieces. The manager rubbed his hands together and his back cringed with precautionary amiability. He did not dare reproach Liane for being late, so he scolded the whole of the rest of the company, who had been early.
“Now, perhaps, since you are at last ready, you set of wooden-heads!” he observed with bitter scorn, “you will no longer trespass upon the patience of Madame!”
Liane raised her head and drew back her lips as if she were smiling.