Madame Doulce entered the box. Unfastening her cloak with its pathetic
lining of old rabbit-skin, she produced a small dog's-eared book.

"They are Madame de Sévigné's letters," she said. "You know that next
Sunday I am going to give a reading of the best of Madame de Sévigné's
letters."

"Where?" asked Fagette.

"Salle Renard."

It must have been some remote and little known hall, for Nanteuil and
Fagette had not heard of it.

"I am giving this reading for the benefit of the three poor orphans left
by Lacour, the actor, who died so sadly of consumption this winter. I am
counting on you, my darlings, to dispose of some tickets for me."

"All the same, she really is ridiculous, Marie-Claire!" said Nanteuil.

Some one scratched at the door of the box. It was Constantin Marc, the
youthful author of a play, _La Grille_, which the Odéon was going to
rehearse immediately; and Constantin Marc, although a countryman living
in the forest, could henceforth breathe only in the theatre. Nanteuil
was to take the principal part in the play. He gazed upon her with
emotion, as the precious amphora destined to be the receptacle of his
thought.

Meanwhile Durville continued hoarsely: