“‘Mercadet’ is about to commence,” he said.
“After the first act I will continue my gossip; provided, of course, that I do not weary you with it.”
“Oh, my dear sir!” I cried. “My”—
I had not time to complete my phrase; a friendly but vigorous hand grasped my arm.
“So you come to ‘Mercadet’ to sleep, do you?” said a well-known voice.
“I? Am I asleep?”
“You are not asleep now, but you were.”
I turned quickly around.
My neighbor was a fat-faced gentleman, with blue spectacles, who was peeling an orange with the most ridiculous gravity.
In the boxes and orchestra stalls, wherever I had thought to see the personages of the “Comédie Humaine,” I found only insignificant faces, of the ordinary and graceless type,—a collection of obliterated medals.