Order of the day.

Despatches to the departments.

Proclamation.'" "Now, Marie-Claire, my child, a little more life, confound it! Cross over! That's it! Very good.

Back again! Good! Very good! Buck up! Ah, the wretched woman! She's spoiling it all!" He called the stage manager.
"Romilly, give us a little more light, one can't see an inch.

Dauville, my dear friend, what are you doing there in front of the prompter's box! You seem glued to it! Just get into your head, once for all, that you are not the statue of General Malet, that you are General Malet in person, that my play is not a catalogue of wax-work figures, but a living moving tragedy, one which brings the tears into your eyes, and----" Words failed him, and he sobbed for a long while into his handkerchief.
Then he roared: "Holy thunder! Pradel! Romilly! Where is Romilly?
Ah, there he is, the villain! Romilly, I told you to put the stove nearer the dormer-window.
You have not done so.