In order to escape from curious listeners he led them into the property room behind the scenes, while Mignon watched their disappearance in some surprise.  They went down a few steps and entered a square room, whose two windows opened upon the courtyard.  A faint light stole through the dirty panes and hung wanly under the low ceiling.  In pigeonholes and shelves, which filled the whole place up, lay a collection of the most varied kind of bric-a-brac.  Indeed, it suggested an old-clothes shop in the Rue de Lappe in process of selling off, so indescribable was the hotchpotch of plates, gilt pasteboard cups, old red umbrellas, Italian jars, clocks in all styles, platters and inkpots, firearms and squirts, which lay chipped and broken and in unrecognizable heaps under a layer of dust an inch deep.  An unendurable odor of old iron, rags and damp cardboard emanated from the various piles, where the debris of forgotten dramas had been collecting for half a century.

“Come in,” Bordenave repeated.  “We shall be alone, at any rate.”

The count was extremely embarrassed, and he contrived to let the manager risk his proposal for him.  Fauchery was astonished.

“Eh?  What?” he asked.

“Just this,” said Bordenave finally.  “An idea has occurred to us.  Now whatever you do, don’t jump!  It’s most serious.  What do you think of Nana for the duchess’s part?”

The author was bewildered; then he burst out with: 

“Ah no, no!  You’re joking, aren’t you?  People would laugh far too much.”

“Well, and it’s a point gained already if they do laugh!  Just reflect, my dear boy.  The idea pleases Monsieur le Comte very much.”

In order to keep himself in countenance Muffat had just picked out of the dust on a neighboring shelf an object which he did not seem to recognize.  It was an eggcup, and its stem had been mended with plaster.  He kept hold of it unconsciously and came forward, muttering: 

“Yes, yes, it would be capital.”

Fauchery turned toward him with a brisk, impatient gesture.  The count had nothing to do with his piece, and he said decisively: 

“Never!  Let Nana play the courtesan as much as she likes, but a lady—­No, by Jove!”

“You are mistaken, I assure you,” rejoined the count, growing bolder.  “This very minute she has been playing the part of a pure woman for my benefit.”

“Where?” queried Fauchery with growing surprise.

“Upstairs in a dressing room.  Yes, she has, indeed, and with such distinction!  She’s got a way of glancing at you as she goes by you—­something like this, you know!”

And eggcup in hand, he endeavored to imitate Nana, quite forgetting his dignity in his frantic desire to convince the others.  Fauchery gazed at him in a state of stupefaction.  He understood it all now, and his anger had ceased.  The count felt that he was looking at him mockingly and pityingly, and he paused with a slight blush on his face.