"You know that next Sunday I am going to give a reading of the best of Madame de Sevigne's letters." "Where ?" asked Fagette.
"Salle Renard." It must have been some remote and little known hall, for Nanteuil and Fagette had not heard of it.
"I am giving this reading for the benefit of the three poor orphans left by Lacour, the actor, who died so sadly of consumption this winter.

I am counting on you, my darlings, to dispose of some tickets for me." "All the same, she really is ridiculous, Marie-Claire!" said Nanteuil.
Some one scratched at the door of the box.

It was Constantin Marc, the youthful author of a play, _La Grille_, which the Odeon was going to rehearse immediately; and Constantin Marc, although a countryman living in the forest, could henceforth breathe only in the theatre.

Nanteuil was to take the principal part in the play.

He gazed upon her with emotion, as the precious amphora destined to be the receptacle of his thought.
Meanwhile Durville continued hoarsely: "If our France can be saved only at the price of our life and honour, I shall say, with the man of '93: 'Perish our memory!'" Fagette pointed her finger at a bloated youth, who was sitting in the orchestra, resting his chin on his walking-stick.
"Isn't that Baron Deutz ?" "Need you ask!" replied Nanteuil.