“Geraldine?” repeated Bordenave in some embarrassment.  “She has a scene—­not a very long one, but a great success.  It’s made for you, I assure you!  Will you sign?”

She looked steadily at him and at length made answer: 

“We’ll see about that all in good time.”

And she rejoined Labordette, who was waiting for her on the stairs.  Everybody in the theater had recognized her, and there was now much whispering, especially between Prulliere, who was scandalized at her return, and Clarisse who was very desirous of the part.  As to Fontan, he looked coldly on, pretending unconcern, for he did not think it becoming to round on a woman he had loved.  Deep down in his heart, though, his old love had turned to hate, and he nursed the fiercest rancor against her in return for the constant devotion, the personal beauty, the life in common, of which his perverse and monstrous tastes had made him tire.

In the meantime, when Labordette reappeared and went up to the count, Rose Mignon, whose suspicions Nana’s presence had excited, understood it all forthwith.  Muffat was bothering her to death, but she was beside herself at the thought of being left like this.  She broke the silence which she usually maintained on such subjects in her husband’s society and said bluntly: 

“You see what’s going on?  My word, if she tries the Steiner trick on again I’ll tear her eyes out!”

Tranquilly and haughtily Mignon shrugged his shoulders, as became a man from whom nothing could be hidden.

“Do be quiet,” he muttered.  “Do me the favor of being quiet, won’t you?”

He knew what to rely on now.  He had drained his Muffat dry, and he knew that at a sign from Nana he was ready to lie down and be a carpet under her feet.  There is no fighting against passions such as that.  Accordingly, as he knew what men were, he thought of nothing but how to turn the situation to the best possible account.

It would be necessary to wait on the course of events.  And he waited on them.

“Rose, it’s your turn!” shouted Bordenave.  “The second act’s being begun again.”

“Off with you then,” continued Mignon, “and let me arrange matters.”

Then he began bantering, despite all his troubles, and was pleased to congratulate Fauchery on his piece.  A very strong piece!  Only why was his great lady so chaste?  It wasn’t natural!  With that he sneered and asked who had sat for the portrait of the Duke of Beaurivage, Geraldine’s wornout roue.  Fauchery smiled; he was far from annoyed.  But Bordenave glanced in Muffat’s direction and looked vexed, and Mignon was struck at this and became serious again.

“Let’s begin, for God’s sake!” yelled the manager.  “Now then, Barillot!  Eh?  What?  Isn’t Bosc there?  Is he bloody well making game of me now?”