“No one who knows me could suppose me capable of jealousy,” she said, in a disturbed voice.
The manager’s eyelids fluttered; he bowed.
“Still,” she continued, with more determination,—then the door opened, and Margot herself appeared. Monsieur Moncet, the jeune premier, had sent her to ask Monsieur Picot to begin the rehearsal, as he had an urgent appointment to keep and had waited an hour already.
It is a curious thing that the more depraved and cold-hearted human beings are, the more passionately sentimental they become. Liane was incorrigibly sentimental, and Margot owed her dismissal entirely to the bunch of violets. It had been Jean’s custom to present Liane with violets every day, and for Jean’s sake Liane had temporarily thrust aside all the more expensive tributes which besieged her door. She drew back for a moment like a creature about to spring, then she rushed forward on to the middle of the stage.
“Dismiss that girl!” she shrieked to the Manager over her shoulder. “What!” she cried, turning on the company. “Am I to be badgered and interrupted in private conversations by the off-scourings of the theatre? Has it come to this, that not a rehearsal can be conducted in a decent manner so as to suit the convenience of the leading lady, only too patient, only too submissive to the whims of a troupe of dancing marionettes? Monsieur Moncet, you have a very important engagement to keep, I hear? Do not let us detain you! Pleasure before duty is the rule of this company! It would be perhaps a trifle more convenable, Monsieur, if you refrained from sending one of your young women to interrupt private interviews, with which your affairs—however pressing—have nothing whatever to do! What, Marie Hauteville, you are amused!”
“Madame! Madame! je vous en prie!” wailed the manager. Liane waved him contemptuously aside.
“Mademoiselle Hauteville is amused!” she went on, with terrific irony. “Let the whole theatre wait, then, until she has digested her joke. What is the rehearsal of a new play compared to the inimitable humour of Mademoiselle? Cat! Daughter of the devil! Spot of infamy! It is a joke, then, that I am bullied, betrayed, infuriated by this canaille of a company! Oh, yes!” shrieked Liane, her irony breaking into wild invective, “it is very amusing, very!” And she collapsed with a scream of rage into the nearest chair.
“I should like to know what I have done to justify Madame’s attack,” said Marie Hauteville wrathfully. “I have not taken away any of her admirers! Thank Heaven, I have no need to adopt enfants from the country.”
“Mademoiselle, taisez-vous!” shrieked the Manager, shaking his fist in her face.
Liane sprang to her feet.