"He is not old," said Madame Nanteuil. "A man is not old at forty."

"A bit used up, isn't he?"

"Oh, dear no," replied Madame Nanteuil, quite calmly.

Chevalier became thoughtful and was silent. Madame Nanteuil began to
nod. Then, being aroused from her somnolence by the servant, who brought
in the salt-cellar and the water-bottle, she inquired:

"And you, Monsieur Chevalier, is all well with you?"

No, all was not well with him. The critics were out to "down" him. And
the proof that they had combined against him was that they all said the
same thing; they said his face lacked expression.

"My face lacking in expression!" he cried indignantly. "They should have
called it a predestined face. Madame Nanteuil, I aim high, and it is
that which does me harm. For example, in _La Nuit du 23 octobre_, which
is being rehearsed now, I am Florentin: I have only six lines; it's a
washout. But I have increased the importance of the character
enormously. Durville is furious. He deliberately crabs all my effects."

Madame Nanteuil, placid and kindly, found words to comfort him.
Obstacles there were, no doubt, but in the end one overcame them. Her
own daughter had fallen foul of the ill-will of certain critics.

"Half-past twelve!" said Chevalier gloomily. "Félicie is late."