“What does she say?” she cried. “Is she about to give us a list of her admirers? I beseech you, let us listen. It will not take long!”
“Malheur!” moaned the manager, burying his face in his hands.
“Is this a rehearsal?” shouted the jeune premier “or is it Pandemonium?”
“It is what you make it,” flashed Liane, turning swiftly upon him, “with your cabotine messengers and your little affaires de cœur, which you cannot keep to yourself, it seems, but desire to intrude upon women of reputation!”
“Et quelle réputation!” murmured Marie Hauteville, who had found her voice.
“I will not stay here to be insulted,” said Moncet, who had been burning to get away for the last half hour. “Mademoiselle Hauteville, allow me to suggest that you follow my example. Madame de Brances is suffering from losses; she is not herself this morning.”
“Go, both of you!” said Liane, with a superb gesture of dismissal. “You are not wasted upon each other.”
The manager raised his head from his hands.
“There will be no rehearsal this morning,” he announced coldly. “To-night at half-past eleven, please, without fail.”
Then Liane turned to Margot; she felt all the resistless hunger of the vulgar and violent to wreak their spite visibly upon their victim.