At a sign from Étienne Lousteau, the doorkeeper of the orchestra took out a little key and unlocked a door in the thickness of the wall. Lucien, following his friend, went suddenly out of the lighted corridor into the black darkness of the passage between the house and the wings. A short flight of damp steps surmounted, one of the strangest of all spectacles opened out before the provincial poet’s eyes. The height of the roof, the slenderness of the props, the ladders hung with Argand lamps, the atrocious ugliness of scenery beheld at close quarters, the thick paint on the actors’ faces, and their outlandish costumes, made of such coarse materials, the stage carpenters in greasy jackets, the firemen, the stage manager strutting about with his hat on his head, the supernumeraries sitting among the hanging back-scenes, the ropes and pulleys, the heterogeneous collection of absurdities, shabby, dirty, hideous, and gaudy, was something so altogether different from the stage seen over the footlights, that Lucien’s astonishment knew no bounds. The curtain was just about to fall on a good old-fashioned melodrama entitled Bertram, a play adapted from a tragedy by Maturin which Charles Nodier, together with Byron and Sir Walter Scott, held in the highest esteem, though the play was a failure on the stage in Paris.
“Keep a tight hold of my arm, unless you have a mind to fall through a trapdoor, or bring down a forest on your head; you will pull down a palace, or carry off a cottage, if you are not careful,” said Étienne.—“Is Florine in her dressing-room, my pet?” he added, addressing an actress who stood waiting for her cue.
“Yes, love. Thank you for the things you said about me. You are so much nicer since Florine has come here.”
“Come, don’t spoil your entry, little one. Quick with you, look sharp, and say, ‘Stop, wretched man!’ nicely, for there are two thousand francs of takings.”
Lucien was struck with amazement when the girl’s whole face suddenly changed, and she shrieked, “Stop, wretched man!” a cry that froze the blood in your veins. She was no longer the same creature.
“So this is the stage,” he said to Lousteau.
“It is like the bookseller’s shop in the Wooden Galleries, or a literary paper,” said Étienne Lousteau; “it is a kitchen, neither more nor less.”
Nathan appeared at this moment.
“What brings you here?” inquired Lousteau.
“Why, I am doing the minor theatres for the Gazette until something better turns up.”
“Oh! come to supper with us this evening; speak well of Florine, and I will do as much for you.”
“Very much at your service,” returned Nathan.
“You know; she is living in the Rue du Bondy now.”
“Lousteau, dear boy, who is the handsome young man that you have brought with you?” asked the actress, now returned to the wings.
“A great poet, dear, that will have a famous name one of these days.—M. Nathan, I must introduce M. Lucien de Rubempré to you, as you are to meet again at supper.”
“You have a good name, monsieur,” said Nathan.
“Lucien, M. Raoul Nathan,” continued Étienne.
“I read your book two days ago; and, upon my word, I cannot understand how you, who have written such a book, and such poetry, can be so humble to a journalist.”
“Wait till your first book comes out,” said Nathan, and a shrewd smile flitted over his face.
“I say! I say! here are Ultras and Liberals actually shaking hands!” cried Vernou, spying the trio.
“In the morning I hold the views of my paper,” said Nathan, “in the evening I think as I please; all journalists see double at night.”
Félicien Vernou turned to Lousteau.
“Finot is looking for you, Étienne; he came with me, and—here he is!”
“Ah, by the by, there is not a place in the house, is there?” asked Finot.
“You will always find a place in our hearts,” said the actress, with the sweetest smile imaginable.
“I say, my little Florville, are you cured already of your fancy? They told me that a Russian prince had carried you off.”
“Who carries off women in these days” said Florville (she who had cried, “Stop, wretched man!”). “We stayed at Saint-Mandé for ten days, and my prince got off with paying the forfeit money to the management. The manager will go down on his knees to pray for some more Russian princes,” Florville continued, laughing; “the forfeit money was so much clear gain.”
“And as for you, child,” said Finot, turning to a pretty girl in a peasant’s costume, “where did you steal these diamond eardrops? Have you hooked an Indian prince?”
“No, a blacking manufacturer, an Englishman, who has gone off already. It is not everybody who can find millionaire shopkeepers, tired of domestic life, whenever they like, as Florine does and Coralie. Aren’t they just lucky?”
“Florville, you will make a bad entry,” said Lousteau; “the blacking has gone to your head!”
“If you want a success,” said Nathan, “instead of screaming, ‘He is saved!’ like a Fury, walk on quite quietly, go to the staircase, and say, ‘He is saved,’ in a chest voice, like Pasta’s ‘O patria,’ in Tancreda.—There, go along!” and he pushed her towards the stage.
“It is too late,” said Vernou, “the effect has hung fire.”
“What did she do? the house is applauding like mad,” asked Lousteau.
“Went down on her knees and showed her bosom; that is her great resource,” said the blacking-maker’s widow.
“The manager is giving up the stage box to us; you will find me there when you come,” said Finot, as Lousteau walked off with Lucien.
At the back of the stage, through a labyrinth of scenery and corridors, the pair climbed several flights of stairs and reached a little room on a third floor, Nathan and Félicien Vernou following them.
“Good day or good night,
