Fauchery’s silence seemed to give consent, and Prulliere, still greatly agitated and discontented despite everything, put his part back into his pocket.  Bosc and Fontan had appeared profoundly indifferent during the course of this explanation.  Let each man fight for his own hand, they reflected; the present dispute had nothing to do with them; they had no interest therein!  All the actors clustered round Fauchery and began questioning him and fishing for praise, while Mignon listened to the last of Prulliere’s complaints without, however, losing sight of Count Muffat, whose return he had been on the watch for.

Entering in the half-light, the count had paused at the back of the stage, for he hesitated to interrupt the quarrel.  But Bordenave caught sight of him and ran forward.

“Aren’t they a pretty lot?” he muttered.  “You can have no idea what I’ve got to undergo with that lot, Monsieur le Comte.  Each man’s vainer than his neighbor, and they’re wretched players all the same, a scabby lot, always mixed up in some dirty business or other!  Oh, they’d be delighted if I were to come to smash.  But I beg pardon—­I’m getting beside myself.”

He ceased speaking, and silence reigned while Muffat sought how to broach his announcement gently.  But he failed and, in order to get out of his difficulty the more quickly, ended by an abrupt announcement: 

“Nana wants the duchess’s part.”

Bordenave gave a start and shouted: 

“Come now, it’s sheer madness!”

Then looking at the count and finding him so pale and so shaken, he was calm at once.

“Devil take it!” he said simply.

And with that there ensued a fresh silence.  At bottom he didn’t care a pin about it.  That great thing Nana playing the duchess might possibly prove amusing!  Besides, now that this had happened he had Muffat well in his grasp.  Accordingly he was not long in coming to a decision, and so he turned round and called out: 

“Fauchery!”

The count had been on the point of stopping him.  But Fauchery did not hear him, for he had been pinned against the curtain by Fontan and was being compelled to listen patiently to the comedian’s reading of the part of Tardiveau.  Fontan imagined Tardiveau to be a native of Marseilles with a dialect, and he imitated the dialect.  He was repeating whole speeches.  Was that right?  Was this the thing?  Apparently he was only submitting ideas to Fauchery of which he was himself uncertain, but as the author seemed cold and raised various objections, he grew angry at once.

Oh, very well, the moment the spirit of the part escaped him it would be better for all concerned that he shouldn’t act it at all!

“Fauchery!” shouted Bordenave once more.

Thereupon the young man ran off, delighted to escape from the actor, who was wounded not a little by his prompt retreat.

“Don’t let’s stay here,” continued Bordenave.  “Come this way, gentlemen.”