Under the crude gaslight, round the pale, naked walls of the entrance hall, which with its scanty First Empire decorations suggested the peristyle of a toy temple, there was a flaring display of lofty yellow posters bearing the name of "Nana" in great black letters.
Gentlemen, who seemed to be glued to the entry, were reading them; others, standing about, were engaged in talk, barring the doors of the house in so doing, while hard by the box office a thickset man with an extensive, close-shaven visage was giving rough answers to such as pressed to engage seats.
"There's Bordenave," said Fauchery as he came down the stairs.

But the manager had already seen him.
"Ah, ah! You're a nice fellow!" he shouted at him from a distance.
"That's the way you give me a notice, is it?
Why, I opened my Figaro this morning--never a word!" "Wait a bit," replied Fauchery.

"I certainly must make the acquaintance of your Nana before talking about her.

Besides, I've made no promises." Then to put an end to the discussion, he introduced his cousin, M.
Hector de la Faloise, a young man who had come to finish his education in Paris.

The manager took the young man's measure at a glance.