The audience, already on their feet, were making for the exits.  The authors were mentioned, and amid a thunder of applause there were two calls before the curtain.  The shout of “Nana!  Nana!” rang wildly forth.  Then no sooner was the house empty than it grew dark:  the footlights went out; the chandelier was turned down; long strips of gray canvas slipped from the stage boxes and swathed the gilt ornamentation of the galleries, and the house, lately so full of heat and noise, lapsed suddenly into a heavy sleep, while a musty, dusty odor began to pervade it.  In the front of her box stood the Countess Muffat.  Very erect and closely wrapped up in her furs, she stared at the gathering shadows and waited for the crowd to pass away.

In the passages the people were jostling the attendants, who hardly knew what to do among the tumbled heaps of outdoor raiment.  Fauchery and La Faloise had hurried in order to see the crowd pass out.  All along the entrance hall men formed a living hedge, while down the double staircase came slowly and in regular, complete formation two interminable throngs of human beings.  Steiner, in tow of Mignon, had left the house among the foremost.  The Count de Vandeuvres took his departure with Blanche de Sivry on his arm.  For a moment or two Gaga and her daughter seemed doubtful how to proceed, but Labordette made haste to go and fetch them a conveyance, the door whereof he gallantly shut after them.  Nobody saw Daguenet go by.  As the truant schoolboy, registering a mental vow to wait at the stage door, was running with burning cheeks toward the Passage des Panoramas, of which he found the gate closed, Satin, standing on the edge of the pavement, moved forward and brushed him with her skirts, but he in his despair gave her a savage refusal and vanished amid the crowd, tears of impotent desire in his eyes.  Members of the audience were lighting their cigars and walking off, humming: 

When Venus roams at eventide.

Satin had gone back in front of the Cafe des Varietes, where Auguste let her eat the sugar that remained over from the customers’ orders.  A stout man, who came out in a very heated condition, finally carried her off in the shadow of the boulevard, which was now gradually going to sleep.

Still people kept coming downstairs.  La Faloise was waiting for Clarisse; Fauchery had promised to catch up Lucy Stewart with Caroline Hequet and her mother.  They came; they took up a whole corner of the entrance hall and were laughing very loudly when the Muffats passed by them with an icy expression.  Bordenave had just then opened a little door and, peeping out, had obtained from Fauchery the formal promise of an article.  He was dripping with perspiration, his face blazed, as though he were drunk with success.

“You’re good for two hundred nights,” La Faloise said to him with civility.  “The whole of Paris will visit your theater.”

But Bordenave grew annoyed and, indicating with a jerk of his chin the public who filled the entrance hall—­a herd of men with parched lips and ardent eyes, still burning with the enjoyment of Nana—­he cried out violently: