La Faloise had cloven a way through the crowd, pulling Fauchery with
him, so as not to miss the opening scene. But all this eagerness on the
part of the public irritated Lucy Stewart. What brutes were these people
to be pushing women like that! She stayed in the rear of them all with
Caroline Hequet and her mother. The entrance hall was now empty, while
beyond it was still heard the long-drawn rumble of the boulevard.

"As though they were always funny, those pieces of theirs!" Lucy kept
repeating as she climbed the stair.

In the house Fauchery and La Faloise, in front of their stalls, were
gazing about them anew. By this time the house was resplendent. High
jets of gas illumined the great glass chandelier with a rustling of
yellow and rosy flames, which rained down a stream of brilliant light
from dome to floor. The cardinal velvets of the seats were shot
with hues of lake, while all the gilding shone again, the soft green
decorations chastening its effect beneath the too-decided paintings of
the ceiling. The footlights were turned up and with a vivid flood of
brilliance lit up the curtain, the heavy purple drapery of which had all
the richness befitting a palace in a fairy tale and contrasted with the
meanness of the proscenium, where cracks showed the plaster under the
gilding. The place was already warm. At their music stands the orchestra
were tuning their instruments amid a delicate trilling of flutes, a
stifled tooting of horns, a singing of violin notes, which floated forth
amid the increasing uproar of voices. All the spectators were talking,
jostling, settling themselves in a general assault upon seats; and the
hustling rush in the side passages was now so violent that every door
into the house was laboriously admitting the inexhaustible flood of
people. There were signals, rustlings of fabrics, a continual march past
of skirts and head dresses, accentuated by the black hue of a dress coat