“What!  It is he?”

“There he is.”

“What impudence!”

Such exclamations from the stalls confusedly rose among many others.  The retirement in which he had taken refuge for some days past had left him in ignorance of the public exasperation, of the homilies, the statements broadcast in the newspapers, with the corrupting influence of his wealth as their text—­articles written for effect, hypocritical phraseology by the aid of which opinion avenges itself from time to time on the innocent for all its own concessions to the guilty.  It was a terribly embarrassing exhibition, which gave him at first more sorrow than anger.  Deeply moved, he hid his emotion behind his opera-glass, fixing his attention on the least details of the stage arrangements, giving a three-quarters view of his back to the house, but unable to escape the scandalous observation of which he was the victim and which made his ears buzz, his temples beat, the dulled lenses of his opera-glass become full of those whirling multi-coloured circles which are the first symptom of brain disorder.

When the curtain fell at the end of the first act he remained motionless, in the same attitude of embarrassment; the whisperings, now more distinct when they were no longer held in check by the dialogue on the stage, the pertinacity of certain inquisitive people changing their places in order to get a better view of him, obliged him to leave his box and to beat a hurried retreat into the corridors, like a wild beast escaping across a circus from the arena.  Beneath the low ceiling in the narrow circular passage of the theatre corridors, he found himself suddenly in the midst of a dense crowd of emasculate youths, journalists, tightly laced women wearing their hats, laughing as part of their trade, their backs against the wall.  From box-doors opened for air, mixed and disjointed fragments of conversation were escaping: 

“A delightful piece.  It is fresh; it is good.”

“That Nabob!  What impudence!”

“Yes, indeed, it is restful.  One feels better for it.”

“How is it that he has not yet been arrested?”

“Quite a young man, it seems.  It is his first play.”

“Bois l’Hery at Mazas!  It is impossible.  Why, there is the marquise opposite, in the balcony, with a new hat.”

“What does that prove?  She is at her business as a stager of new fashions.  It is very pretty, that hat.  In Desgrange’s racing colours.”

“And Jenkins?  What is Jenkins doing?”

“At Tunis, with Felicia.  Old Brahim has seen them both.  It seems that the Bey has begun to take the pearls.”

“The deuce he has!”

Farther along, soft voices were murmuring: 

“Yes, father, do, do go speak to him.  See how lonely he looks, poor man!”

“But, children, I do not know him.”

“Never mind.  Just a bow.  Something to show him that he is not utterly deserted.”