She ran after him, leaving her sentence unfinished.  At that moment Mme Bron, the portress of the theater, passed by the door with an immense bouquet in her arms.  Simonne asked cheerfully if it was for her, but the porter woman did not vouchsafe an answer and only pointed her chin toward Nana’s dressing room at the end of the passage.  Oh, that Nana!  They were loading her with flowers!  Then when Mme Bron returned she handed a letter to Clarisse, who allowed a smothered oath to escape her.  That beggar La Faloise again!  There was a fellow who wouldn’t let her alone!  And when she learned the gentleman in question was waiting for her at the porter’s lodge she shrieked: 

“Tell him I’m coming down after this act.  I’m going to catch him one on the face.”

Fontan had rushed forward, shouting: 

“Madame Bron, just listen.  Please listen, Madame Bron.  I want you to send up six bottles of champagne between the acts.”

But the callboy had again made his appearance.  He was out of breath, and in a singsong voice he called out: 

“All to go on the stage!  It’s your turn, Monsieur Fontan.  Make haste, make haste!”

“Yes, yes, I’m going, Father Barillot,” replied Fontan in a flurry.

And he ran after Mme Bron and continued: 

“You understand, eh?  Six bottles of champagne in the greenroom between the acts.  It’s my patron saint’s day, and I’m standing the racket.”

Simonne and Clarisse had gone off with a great rustling of skirts.  Everybody was swallowed up in the distance, and when the passage door had banged with its usual hollow sound a fresh hail shower was heard beating against the windows in the now-silent greenroom.  Barillot, a small, pale-faced ancient, who for thirty years had been a servant in the theater, had advanced familiarly toward Mignon and had presented his open snuffbox to him.  This proffer of a pinch and its acceptance allowed him a minute’s rest in his interminable career up and down stairs and along the dressing-room passage.  He certainly had still to look up Mme Nana, as he called her, but she was one of those who followed her own sweet will and didn’t care a pin for penalties.  Why, if she chose to be too late she was too late!  But he stopped short and murmured in great surprise: 

“Well, I never!  She’s ready; here she is!  She must know that the prince is here.”

Indeed, Nana appeared in the corridor.  She was dressed as a fish hag:  her arms and face were plastered with white paint, and she had a couple of red dabs under her eyes.  Without entering the greenroom she contented herself by nodding to Mignon and Fauchery.

“How do?  You’re all right?”

Only Mignon shook her outstretched hand, and she hied royally on her way, followed by her dresser, who almost trod on her heels while stooping to adjust the folds of her skirt.  In the rear of the dresser came Satin, closing the procession and trying to look quite the lady, though she was already bored to death.