Chapter XIX: A Play in the Woods

It was midsummer, when the days were longest; and so, although it was nearly eight o’clock, the gardens were not yet dark, and they could see outside the gate a large number of persons who had come to see the performance. The ladies were in full dress, because they knew that after the play there would be dancing; the men too had taken pains with their costumes; for while saying to themselves: “In the country there is no ceremony;” they were quite as anxious to please there as in the city.

“The devil! the devil!” said Chambourdin, ogling the ladies who arrived. “Why, some of them are passably good-looking. Who is that brunette, with high color and her hair dressed _à la Fontange_? She has a saucy little air which attracts me immensely. Is she a product of the neighborhood?”

“Yes, she belongs here, or at all events she has property here.”

“Has she a husband?”

“She has one who is three times her age.”

“Then, it’s about the same as if she hadn’t any!”

“She is very gay, very fond of laughing; she rides and fences and dances admirably.”

“Sapristi! why on earth didn’t you give her a part in the play, Monsieur Glumeau? I should have been delighted to fence with her, to try the _four blows_ with her.”

Monsieur Glumeau was no longer there; he had gone to receive his guests; but little Astianax, made exceedingly loquacious by the champagne, replied:

“My mother and sister aren’t very fond of Madame Boutillon--that is the pretty brunette’s name; they say that her manner with men is too free.”

“Oh! of course! that’s just like the women; when one of them happens to be a little more lively, a little less prudish, and doesn’t pick her expressions, but says frankly what she thinks, why she is voted bad form at once! she is too free! I snap my fingers at it; I like them that way myself, and I will look after the little Boutillon!”

“Ah! here is Miaulard, messieurs.”

“Good-evening, Miaulard; are you still hoarse?”

“I am getting better, much better.”

“The deuce you say! you seem hardly able to speak to-day.”

“Yes, but the last time I couldn’t speak at all.”

“Ah! here is the baroness, messieurs, the famous Baroness de--de--what’s her name?”

“De Grangeville.--What a beautiful dress!”

“What style! that woman must have been extremely pretty once.”

“Ah! here is my friend Jéricourt, the literary man, with Monsieur Alfred de Saint-Arthur.”

Astianax ran to meet his friend, who was already looking about with a mocking air at the gardens and at the people whom he saw in them.

“Good-evening, my dear neighbor; it is very kind of you to have remembered my invitation.”

“I should have been very sorry not to accept it, my dear Astianax; I am told that there is always much entertainment at your house, and that the supper is always excellent.--By the way, allow me to introduce my friend, Monsieur de Saint-Arthur.”

“Highly flattered, monsieur; I have had the honor of seeing you with monsieur.”

“True, we met on the boulevard.”

“At the booth of a pretty flower girl.”

“Yes, I am not ashamed to say that I am one of her admirers.”

“I was, but she has fallen infernally in my esteem, since that day--you remember the occasion, Monsieur Jéricourt?”

“Oh! very well, indeed; but after all, why should that make any difference to you? The flower girl is none the less pretty.”

“Of course not! But, you see, I thought that she was innocence personified.”

“Oh! oh!” cried the dandified Saint-Arthur, trying to stuff the head of his cane into his nose, “the idea of a flower girl being a model of virtue! That would be the eighth wonder of the world.--But where is your theatre, monsieur?”

“You will see it in a moment.--But I see my mother and sister; I will introduce you, messieurs.”

“That long bean-pole is his sister,” whispered Saint-Arthur in Jéricourt’s ear.

“Yes, my dear fellow, and I don’t advise you to give her your arm, you would look like her doll!”

“Never fear, I haven’t any desire to do it. What a pity that Zizi isn’t with us! I see that there will be plenty to laugh at here. How she would enjoy it! I fancy that we shall find their comedy decidedly ridiculous! But what are they going to do with all the chairs they are taking out of the garden? Are they moving?”

“Those are the seats being taken to the theatre,” said Madame Glumeau, graciously saluting the two gentlemen, who, although they had just arrived, were already busily engaged in making sport of whatever they saw; “seats for the spectators, I mean. It would be very kind of you, messieurs, to help a little, to take a few chairs into the wood.”

“What an astonishing woman!” murmured the dandified Saint-Arthur, turning to Jéricourt; “as if we came here to carry chairs!”

“Come, come, Alfred, be decent, or I won’t take you into the country again. Look about; there are some very pretty women here, and I sacrifice myself,--I am going to carry some chairs.”

The garden began to fill with guests, some from Paris, others who lived in the neighborhood. The darkness was coming on, and the semi-obscurity added to the charm of the occasion. Some ladies, by chance or by design, had wandered away from their husbands, whom they were careful not to find again; but gallant cavaliers zealously offered their arms, to assist them in their search.

Chambourdin did not fail to take advantage of the opportunity to approach Madame Boutillon; the pretty little brunette had lost no time in losing her husband very soon after her arrival, and the bald young man hastened to offer her his arm, saying:

“You are looking for monsieur your husband? accept my arm, madame, and I’ll guide you; I know the house.”

“Oh! I am not looking for my husband at all, monsieur,” replied the little lady, laughing; “I am not afraid that he will get lost.”

“Ah! that makes a difference; pray come into the woods, madame; I will take you to the theatre and find you a seat.”

“With pleasure, monsieur.”

At that moment, Madame Glumeau walked toward the gate with a large number of ladies, exclaiming:

“Come to the woods, messieurs, everybody to the theatre; we must take seats, for it will begin very soon.”

The company followed Madame Glumeau to the enclosure facing the stage. All the seats were very soon occupied, but most of the men took their places behind, and leaned against the trees. The creaking of the trellis work which enclosed the auditorium indicated that there was also an audience outside, which proposed to enjoy the spectacle although uninvited.

The male actors dressed in the billiard room, the ladies in the house. As they were about to begin, they discovered that various indispensable accessories were lacking; thereupon there was much running from the theatre to the house, and from the house to the theatre; one saw nothing but people hurrying back and forth, shouting:

“The basket! we must have a basket!”

“And the letter for Monsieur Astianax!”

“And a table! we must have a table, and a cloth on it!”

“We want a stove,--where’s the stove?”

“There isn’t one; take an empty cask, that will represent a stove well enough!”

“We must have a pie! there’s a supper in the play.”

“Take an empty flower pot, that will do very well for the pie.”

“We want a bottle of champagne.”

“There’s a bottle of Seltzer behind the first wing; that will pop like champagne.”

All these incidents delayed the rising of the curtain; but the audience did not grumble, they laughed and found amusement in all that they saw. At last an amateur musician armed with a violin, and another carrying a clarinet in his arms like a baby, took their seats in front of the stage.

As for the prompter, there being no hole under the stage for him, he stood behind the drop curtain.

“This theatre in the midst of a forest is really very pretty!” said Madame de Grangeville, who was seated beside Madame Glumeau.

“Oh! you will see how pretty it is, madame la baronne, when the curtain rises; we have some lovely scenery: a Pompadour salon, painted by Monsieur Devoir; it is perfectly lovely.”

“What plays are they going to give us?”

“They begin with _Œil et Nez_, a little farce acted by Madame Dufournelle, my son and Monsieur Mangeot.--But it is very strange,--look about as I will, I don’t see Madame Boutillon; and yet I am very sure that she came with her husband.”

“Who is Madame Boutillon?”

“She is a young lady who lives here in summer, as we do; she had on a very original, very pretty dress.”

“If she has on a pretty dress, it isn’t possible that she has hidden herself; she must be somewhere here.”

“But no, I can’t see her.”

“Hush! they are beginning.”

The three knocks were given. The amateur with the violin started off and played the overture to Fra Diavolo; the clarinet started a few measures later, and played the overture to Jeune Henri; the two men played thus for some time, seeing who could go the faster, persuaded that they would finally overtake each other and play together. The audience opened their ears in amazement, but the wiser ones stuffed theirs.

“Sapristi! what on earth are they playing?” murmured a native, looking at his neighbor, who answered in an undertone:

“I don’t know, but it’s a terrible mixture.”

At last the violin stopped, but the clarinet went on.

“We are not playing the same thing, that isn’t right!” cried the violinist, waving his bow.

The clarinet refused to listen; he went on with his _Jeune Henri_. Luckily the curtain rose, the actors came on the stage; but as the clarinet kept on, they were obliged to rush upon him and snatch his instrument away.

The little farce would have gone very well if Madame Dufournelle had laughed less, and if Monsieur Mangeot had looked less often at the prompter, which, by the way, did him no good, because Monsieur Camuzard, who filled that post, having drunk too freely of the champagne, found his mouth so dry that he could hardly speak, and passed his time turning over the play-book, and saying to the actor who was waiting for his lines:

“Wait till I find the place; I can’t find it; we have time enough; they won’t ask for their money back!”

Luckily the actors did not follow this advice, and despite the prompter, the first play, which was very amusing, came to an end amid the applause of the spectators.

As soon as the first play was at an end, Madame Glumeau rose, in order to make further search for Madame Boutillon, whose husband was chatting tranquilly with a group of men who had gathered on the outskirts of the audience.

“As her husband is there, the lady must also be in the audience, unless she has gone on the stage; she is quite capable of it.”

“I say! look at that lady sitting on the branch of a tree!” cried the clarinet at that moment to his neighbor the violin. “There’s an idea for you! if the branch should break, we should see some fine things.”

“That is she! that is Madame Boutillon!” said Madame Glumeau, looking at the person who had deemed it advisable to adopt that position.

Chambourdin, who had taken the little brunette’s arm on the pretext of finding her a good place to see the play, had in fact led her into the wood, of which he knew every nook and corner; but instead of taking her toward the stage, he had taken her in the opposite direction, and had soon found himself with Madame Boutillon in the deserted paths, where they could hardly see their hands before their faces, for lanterns had been placed only in the paths leading to the theatre.

The little brunette, noticing somewhat tardily that her guide was not taking her toward the company, and that he held her arm as if he proposed to waltz with her, chose to stop, saying:

“Where on earth are you taking me, monsieur? I can hardly see anything here.”

“That makes no difference, madame; don’t be afraid I’ll lose my way; I’m like a cat, I can see in the dark.”

“But I am not like a cat, monsieur, and I prefer to walk where it is light; we did not take the path leading to the theatre.”

“We shall arrive there all the same this way; all the paths lead there.”

“This must be the longest one.”

“With you, madame, the longest will always be the shortest.”

“That is very polite of you; but don’t hold me like that, I beg.”

“Suppose we should waltz a bit?”

“You are mad! the idea of waltzing when we can’t see!”

“That makes no difference; on the contrary, you get less dizzy.”

“Really, monsieur, you have some very original ideas; but I want to see the play, and you will be responsible, monsieur, for my not finding a seat.”

“As for that, madame, I will undertake to give you one of the best places.--Come, madame.”

“Oh! you shall not lead me astray again, monsieur; that isn’t the way to go, this is the way.”

The little brunette chose the right road this time, and refusing to listen to Chambourdin, she arrived in front of the stage at last; but as she had anticipated, all the chairs were occupied.

“Well! what did I tell you, monsieur? Come, show me that excellent seat which you reserved for me.”

“This way, madame; I will show you.”

And Chambourdin led the young lady to an enormous chestnut, the branches of which reached out a long way, forming a thousand odd figures.

“See, madame, do you want a really good seat? Look at this tree; this first branch, which is very low, will afford you a chair, yes, an armchair, for the branches behind seem placed there expressly for a support. As for the strength of the branch, you need have no fear, it would bear fifteen people like you. From there, you will overlook everybody, and will have an infinitely better view than all the ladies in the chairs. Will you allow me to put you up there, madame? Nothing could be easier; I will make a step for you.”

Madame Boutillon roared with laughter at the suggestion of her escort; but as she was a very original person herself, and as she was especially fond of making herself as whimsical as possible, she accepted the suggestion and replied:

“All right, monsieur, give me a back, and let me climb up to my box.”

The young man at once obeyed, offering his hands and his shoulders. That method of climbing a tree was slightly risqué for a lady, and all the men who witnessed the scene envied the opportunity of the one who acted as Madame Boutillon’s ladder; but she mounted so rapidly, and turned about in the tree with such aplomb, that everybody applauded her ascent. Chambourdin remained standing near the pretty brunette, who used his shoulders as a bench to rest her feet upon; and not for anything on earth would he have abandoned his position.

Madame Glumeau, who had turned toward the chestnut tree, called to Madame Boutillon:

“Mon Dieu, madame! what on earth are you doing there? What an idea to climb up into that tree!”

“I did it to have a good view of the play, madame; all the seats below were taken, and I love to have a good place.”

“For heaven’s sake, come down, Madame Boutillon! I will give you my chair, and find another. Come, you can’t stay up in the air.”

“Why not, pray? I don’t see that I am in anybody’s way; and as I am perfectly comfortable, I propose to stay here.”

“She is an extraordinary creature!” said Madame Glumeau, turning to the people near her. “She always wants to do differently from others!”

“If that lady desires to put herself in evidence,” said Madame de Grangeville, “it seems to me that she couldn’t have a better place.”

The mistress of the house left her seat for a moment, and approached the group of which Monsieur Boutillon was one; she made her way to the old gentleman’s side and said to him:

“Monsieur Boutillon, do look at your wife, sitting on the branch of a tree! I am afraid some accident will happen to her. Tell her to get down. I have begged her to but she won’t listen to me.”

“What! what! Is that my wife up there?” replied the husband, looking into the air. “Oh! that doesn’t surprise me; she has always been fond of climbing trees; she’s a regular squirrel, is Zéphirine! She is strong, and yet she is very light. One day, at a village fête, she insisted upon climbing a greased pole. She put on trousers, and she would have reached the prize, if they hadn’t torn, so that she had to come down! We had a good laugh over it!”

“But Monsieur Boutillon, if madame should fall,--it isn’t probable that she has put on trousers to come here to dance.”

“No matter! never fear, I’ll answer for everything.”

“If the husband answers for everything, madame,” observed Jéricourt with a mocking expression, “it seems to me that you have no right to worry!”

“Let’s go and stand by the chestnut tree, Jéricourt,” said little Saint-Arthur, leading his literary friend away.

“Ah! my dear Alfred, you are a sad rake! you want to see the foliage upside down!--Well, I will let you take me where you will.”

As she returned to her seat, Madame Glumeau saw her son rush into the woods with an air of dismay, crying:

“Miaulard! Miaulard! where’s Miaulard?”

“What’s the matter, Astianax? you look all upset. What do you want of Monsieur Miaulard?”

“Why, we want him to take Kingerie’s place. Just as we were ready to begin _Il y a plus d’un Ane à la Foire_, we noticed that Kingerie wasn’t on the stage; we called him and hunted everywhere for him; at last Dufournelle heard groaning from the direction of the pond; he ran there and found that Kingerie had fallen in. It seems that he had remained at the billiard room to dress, and discovered that he was late; thereupon he started to run, and didn’t remember that there was a small pond in the woods; so he fell into it.”

“Upon my word! did he do it on purpose? A pond that isn’t ten feet in circumference! Did he find a way to drown himself in it, too?”

“No, he couldn’t have done it if he had wanted to; there isn’t three feet of water; but the champagne he had drunk--everything together made him sick; he is in no state to act, and Miaulard must take his place.--Tell the audience to be patient.--Miaulard! Miaulard!”

Madame Glumeau returned to her seat and informed the company of the accident that had happened to one of the amateur actors, and requested indulgence for the one who was to take his place. This little speech at an end, the mistress of the house was on the point of resuming her seat, when she saw a gentleman standing against a tree a little apart from the company, and apparently engaged in passing in review the assembled guests.

“Ah! I was very certain that he would come, myself,” said Madame Glumeau, sitting down beside Madame de Grangeville. “It’s a great favor that he does us, for hitherto he has refused every invitation; he hasn’t been anywhere.”

“Of whom are you speaking, madame?”

“Of one of our neighbors, named Monsieur Malberg, who owns a fine estate near ours, and who has the reputation of living like a bear, of never seeing anybody. But he makes a very good appearance, none the less.”

“Where is this bear of yours?”

“Over yonder, at the right. Turn a little and you can see him at your ease; he isn’t looking this way now.”

Madame de Grangeville followed the indication that Madame Glumeau had given her and soon she saw Monsieur Malberg, who was quite alone, evidently determined to hold himself aloof from the assemblage, at which he was looking as if he were seeking someone there.

The baroness’s eyes rested upon him; she seemed unable to remove them, and as she gazed at him, her features altered, her face became ghastly pale, and her whole person betrayed the most profound agitation. Madame Glumeau did not observe her neighbor’s confusion, because she was talking with the violin and the clarinet players, who proposed to play something to beguile the tedium of the intermission; but, luckily for the audience, the signal was given and the second play soon began.

Madame Glumeau gently nudged her neighbor, who was still looking toward the right, and said:

“They’ve begun, they’ve begun. You’ll see my husband act now, he has a very important part; he is splendid in it; he cuts a thousand capers. My daughter and my son act also, and the play is very well mounted!”

Madame de Grangeville did not seem to hear what Madame Glumeau said, for she continued to look toward the right, apparently paying no attention to the stage; but suddenly she turned her head and resumed her former position; it was because Monsieur Malberg had looked in her direction and she had not dared to meet his glance.

The second farce was _enlevé_, as they say on the stage. The substitution of Miaulard for young Kingerie did not injure the play in the least. The former being extremely hoarse, nobody heard him speak, which made it unnecessary for him to know his part. But it was noticed that Monsieur Glumeau, who had danced his part through three-fourths of the play, was much less animated toward the end.

After the farce, as they expected a long intermission, to prepare the scenery for the important play and to give the actors time to change their costumes, there was a general movement among the audience. The men went to walk in the woods, to smoke their cigars, the ladies gathered in groups to chat, and some of them also walked away under the trees, where they were frequently heard laughing heartily,--for what reason, nobody knew.

“This idea of a theatre in the woods is very original,” said Jéricourt to his friend Alfred; “really I did not imagine that it would be so amusing. Come, Saint-Arthur, let us take a turn around the theatre to look at it all at close quarters. Do you intend to stay planted by this chestnut tree? Why, my dear fellow, it would do no good for you to shake the tree, the lady won’t fall like a plum; besides, she has a cavalier at her feet, who doesn’t seem inclined to lose sight of her.”

“But suppose I should climb the tree myself?”

“Ah! that would be one way of approaching the lady, it is true; but reserve that until a little later, wait until the last play begins.”

The little dandy allowed his friend to lead him on the stage, where they did not find a single actress, those ladies having gone to dress; but by way of compensation, they saw the young druggist in the costume of Détroussandos, chief of bandits, who was rehearsing his part, his battles, his manœuvres, with Miaulard, the latter having undertaken also the rôle of Malinot, which the unfortunate Kingerie was to have played in _Roderic et Cunégonde_.

Monsieur Fourriette’s costume consisted simply of flesh-colored tights, over which he had drawn a very short pair of red and black bathing drawers, a jacket, a belt, and a broad-brimmed gray hat with the brim turned down.

“The deuce! there’s a brigand who proposes to show how he is built,” said Jéricourt.

“Is not my costume pretty, messieurs?” asked the druggist, addressing the two young men, whom he recognized as persons to whom he had several times sold pills and other preparations.

“Ah! it’s Monsieur Fourriette; I didn’t recognize you. So you are to act in the next play, are you?”

“Yes, messieurs, I take the part of Détroussandos, the brigand; I am rather well dressed, eh?”

“In other words, you are not dressed at all; your costume is exceedingly indecent.”

“In what respect, pray? I have on tights----”

“Yes, but so tight one wouldn’t think you wore any.”

“So much the better; at all events, I have drawers----”

“Which don’t reach half way down your thighs.”

“Messieurs, I love accuracy in everything; this is the true costume of the Italian brigand.”

“It is lucky that you are not to act in the Creation of the World; you would be capable of representing Adam in the costume of that day.”

“Faith! it would be more exact.”

“I like to think that you will have a cloak at least.”

“Yes, I have one, but I shan’t put it on; I shall simply carry it on my arm.”

“You evidently mean to make conquests.”

“Why not? I saw a little lady just now up in a tree--_fichtre!_ messieurs, such a pretty brunette! such a lovely bird!--Come, Monsieur Miaulard, let’s rehearse our fight with swords. One, two, up; three, four, down!”

“I say, messieurs, it isn’t certain that we shall give the play, after all,” said Monsieur Mangeot, appearing in his hermit’s costume, with a huge piece of cotton batting pasted to his chin, which imitated a white beard to perfection.

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“What has happened?”

“Has some other actor fallen into the pond?”

“I insist upon it’s being emptied at once, so that we shan’t have any more of that.”

“No, messieurs, it isn’t that, no one has fallen into the pond; only Kingerie was capable of such a masterpiece as that; but Monsieur Glumeau is complaining, and says that he doesn’t know if he will be able to act.”

“Bah! what’s the matter with him now?”

“You probably noticed that when he was playing Pincette just now, he was in delightfully high spirits at first, and did nothing but jump and pirouette; he sang all his lines, standing on his toes; he was a regular zephyr. But toward the end, as he attempted to pirouette from one end of the stage to the other, although it isn’t very large, it seems that he caught a stitch in his side; he must have twisted himself, or strained some nerve, or perhaps much less than that; but you know Monsieur Glumeau--he thinks he’s dying on the slightest provocation. Ever since then he has been very anxious, he goes limping about, holding his side; he wants to be rubbed every minute, and he’s afraid of inflammation.”

“Well, why don’t they give his part to Chambourdin?”

“Chambourdin! We can’t even count on him to play one of the robbers. He is standing almost under the skirts of a lady who is seated on the branch of a tree. Just now I called out to him: ‘Come and put on your robber’s costume!’ and he answered: ‘I am here at madame’s orders, and bayonets won’t make me leave.’”

“Sapristi! we must give the play all the same!” cried the druggist, who was most anxious to exhibit himself in tights; “doesn’t monsieur feel able to take the part impromptu?”

The druggist addressed this question to little Saint-Arthur. The young dandy, always keenly desirous to produce a sensation, was attracted by the suggestion and exclaimed:

“Do I wear a handsome costume?”

“You dress as you please.”

“Pardieu! in that case, I like the idea, and I accept; but, as I shan’t have time to learn the part, I will act in pantomime.”

“An excellent idea,--as good as that of giving _La Dame Blanche_ without music.”

“What do you mean, Saint-Arthur, are you really going to act?” asked Jéricourt.

“Yes, yes; I have an idea of a costume that will leave Fourriette’s in the shade! I am going to cover myself with leaves.”

But at that moment they heard young Miaulard shouting:

“Victory! here comes Monsieur Glumeau in his tyrant’s costume, messieurs; that means that he will act.”

“See how he hobbles along and leans over on one side!”

“That won’t do any harm in his part; he will suggest Ligier in _Richard the Third_, at a distance.”

Monsieur Glumeau came on the stage, saying in a most affecting manner:

“Ah! my friends, I don’t know whether I shall be able to play; this infernal pain doesn’t leave me; it’s terrible!”

“It isn’t anything, Monsieur Glumeau--a strained muscle.”

“Or perhaps it’s only wind, a gust of wind that has lodged there.”

“Do you think so? Ten thousand bombs! if I only knew that!”

“I am not at all anxious to stand beside him!” muttered Miaulard, walking away.

“Everybody’s ready,” said little Astianax, muffled up in a cuirass and buckler and helmet, and brandishing a lance which was twice as long as himself. “Where is my sister, where is Cunégonde?”

“Here I am!” cried Mademoiselle Eolinde, dressed as a Malabar widow. “I have my p--p--part at the end of my f--f--fingers.”

“Let us begin then.”

“One moment!” said Monsieur Glumeau; “before we begin, I want to drink a glass of anise water; someone has gone to fetch it for me.”

“What is going to happen, great heavens? what is going to happen?” exclaimed Miaulard, walking still farther away from Monsieur Glumeau.

At last, in place of anise water, they brought Monsieur Glumeau some anisette; he drank two small glasses of it and consented that the play should begin. The signal was given. The amateur musicians executed a polka which would pass very well for the overture to a melodrama. The curtain rose, and applause burst forth on all sides; the audience was delighted with the scenery; no curtain had been hung at the rear, and the veritable forest, lighted here and there, produced a magical effect. And then the odd costumes of the actors heightened the enthusiasm of the audience. The hermit’s cotton beard, the chevalier’s helmet, the vizor of which persisted in falling over young Astianax’s nose, the wooden swords and daggers, everything, even to the dragging gait and foolish expression of the tyrant, combined to enchant the spectators; but when the young druggist appeared as Détroussandos, when he strode across the stage with his tights surmounted by drawers, bursts of laughter arose in every direction, and the little lady who was seated on the branch of a tree was seized with such a paroxysm of hilarity that several times, as she squirmed about, she almost fell; luckily Chambourdin was still in his place, ready to restore equilibrium over his head.

The play proceeded amid general applause and hilarity, until the scene between the child and the robbers who proposed to kill Roderic. The gardener was said to be at his post; and in fact Master Pichet had not forgotten that he was to take his son’s place; but instead of remaining sober as he had been urged to do, the gardener had considered, on the other hand, that in order to act with spirit, and to avoid any feeling of timidity before the audience, it would not be a bad idea to get a little tipsy; and what the peasant called getting a little tipsy, was drinking so much that he could hardly stand on his legs. In that condition Monsieur Pichet had gone upon the stage, and had hidden himself behind the trees from which he was supposed to keep an eye upon the robbers.

“Don’t forget your lines,” said Eolinde: “‘Oh! for heaven’s sake, messieurs, don’t hurt papa!’”

“Oh! I know the lines! Don’t you be afraid, mamzelle, I don’t know anything else!”

Meanwhile, the famous scene was reached; Détroussandos and two robbers held their swords over Roderic’s head, and the child did not appear to prevent them from striking.

“The child! the child! _sapredié!_ send on the child!” exclaimed Astianax in an undertone.

“What on earth is that brute doing?” muttered Fourriette, still holding his sword in the air; “is he going to leave us like this for long?”

The gardener did not appear, because when he was once seated behind the trees, he had instantly fallen asleep; stout Dufournelle, who was prompting and who heard him snore, ran to him and shook him roughly by the arm, shouting:

“It’s your turn! it’s time for you to go on! wake up, corbleu!”

The gardener, waking with a start, rubbed his eyes, sprang to his feet, ran on the stage, and threw himself into the midst of the robbers, exclaiming:

“Ah! you villains! you loafers! you mean to beat our young master, do you? Just wait a bit, and I’ll show all three of you something! You’ll see how I do it!”

And with that, falling upon the druggist and the two young men dressed as robbers, the gardener began to distribute fisticuffs and kicks which were not included in the action of the play; the three actors, who did not anticipate that attack, began to shout and yell, and ended by returning the gardener the blows that they received; this combat, which the audience supposed to be feigned, was greeted with unanimous applause, and Monsieur Boutillon cried:

“Faith, I have often been to the theatre, but I must confess that I never saw such a good imitation of a fist fight as this!”