And in the middle of this untidy, ill-kept storeroom sat four fashionable, white-gloved society men.

They occupied as many ancient straw-bottomed chairs and, with an expression at once patient and submissive, kept sharply turning their heads in Mme Bron's direction every time she came down from the theater overhead, for on such occasions she was the bearer of replies.

Indeed, she had but now handed a note to a young man who had hurried out to open it beneath the gaslight in the vestibule, where he had grown slightly pale on reading the classic phrase--how often had others read it in that very place!--"Impossible tonight, my dearie! I'm booked!" La Faloise sat on one of these chairs at the back of the room, between the table and the stove.

He seemed bent on passing the evening there, and yet he was not quite happy.

Indeed, he kept tucking up his long legs in his endeavors to escape from a whole litter of black kittens who were gamboling wildly round them while the mother cat sat bolt upright, staring at him with yellow eyes.
"Ah, it's you, Mademoiselle Simonne! What can I do for you ?" asked the portress.
Simonne begged her to send La Faloise out to her.