"If it goes on that way much longer, I won't be able to stand it! The landlord has ordered me to move. Yesterday I pawned almost the last rag, for I had to buy my Johnnie some wine. The poor little fellow is convalescing so slowly. He already wants to get out of bed and is getting restless and peevish. If Ciepieszewski doesn't engage me and pay me in advance, the landlord will throw me out into the street," whispered Wolska to one of her companions of the chorus.
"But are you sure Ciepieszewski is organizing a company?" asked her listener.
"He is, undoubtedly. I am to see him in a few days to sign a contract."
"So you're not going to stay with Cabinski?"
"No, he doesn't want to pay the overdue salary he owes me."
Thirty years were written plainly on Wolska's wearied face on which worry had left its deep marks. The thick layer of powder and rouge could not conceal those wrinkles, nor the unrest that glowed in her eyes. She had a six-year-old son who had been ill since the spring. She defended him desperately, at the expense of starving herself.
"Counselor! Welcome to our company!" cried Glas, spying the old man, who for a few weeks had not been seen in the theater.
The counselor entered and began greeting everybody. The reading of the play was interrupted, for all sprang up from their seats.
"Good morning! Good morning! Am I interrupting you?"
"No, no!" chorused the actors.