Varietes was still all but empty. A few individuals, it is true, were
sitting quietly waiting in the balcony and stalls, but these were lost,
as it were, among the ranges of seats whose coverings of cardinal
velvet loomed in the subdued light of the dimly burning luster. A shadow
enveloped the great red splash of the curtain, and not a sound came from
the stage, the unlit footlights, the scattered desks of the orchestra.
It was only high overhead in the third gallery, round the domed ceiling
where nude females and children flew in heavens which had turned green
in the gaslight, that calls and laughter were audible above a continuous
hubbub of voices, and heads in women's and workmen's caps were ranged,
row above row, under the wide-vaulted bays with their gilt-surrounding
adornments. Every few seconds an attendant would make her appearance,
bustling along with tickets in her hand and piloting in front of her a
gentleman and a lady, who took their seats, he in his evening dress,
she sitting slim and undulant beside him while her eyes wandered slowly
round the house.

Two young men appeared in the stalls; they kept standing and looked
about them.

"Didn't I say so, Hector?" cried the elder of the two, a tall fellow
with little black mustaches. "We're too early! You might quite well have
allowed me to finish my cigar."

An attendant was passing.

"Oh, Monsieur Fauchery," she said familiarly, "it won't begin for half
an hour yet!"

"Then why do they advertise for nine o'clock?" muttered Hector, whose