If you want simple and sincere feeling, if you would see overflowing
affection, tenderness, laughter--the laughter born of great happiness
which, at a tiny movement of the lips, is brought to the verge of
tears--and the beautiful wild joy of youth illumined by bright eyes
transparent to the very depths of the souls behind them--all these
things you may find this Sunday morning in a house that you know of, a
new house, down yonder, right at the end of the old faubourg. The glass
door on the ground floor shines more brightly than usual. More gaily
than ever dance the letters over the door, and from the open windows
comes the sound of glad cries, flowing from a stream of happiness.
“Accepted! it is accepted! Oh, what good luck! Henriette, Elise, do come
here! M. Maranne’s play is accepted!”
Andre heard the news yesterday. Cardailhac, the manager of the
_Nouveautes_, sent for him to inform him that his play was to be
produced immediately--that it would be put on next month. They passed
the evening discussing scenic arrangements and the distribution of
parts; and, as it was too late to knock at his neighbour’s door when he
got home from the theatre, the happy author waited for the morning in
feverish impatience, and then, as soon as he heard people stirring below
and the shutters open with a click against the house-front, he made
haste to go down to announce the good news to his friends. Just now they
are all assembled together, the young ladies in pretty _deshabille_,
their hair hastily twisted up, and M. Joyeuse, whom the announcement
had surprised in the midst of shaving, presenting under his embroidered
night-cap a strange face divided into two parts, one side shaved, the
other not. But Andre Maranne is the most excited, for you know what the
acceptance of _Revolt_ means for him; what was agreed between them and
Bonne Maman. The poor fellow looks at her as if to find an encouragement
in her eyes; and the rather mischievous, kind eyes seem to say, “Make
the experiment, in any case. What is the risk?” To give himself
courage he looks also at Mlle. Elise, pretty as a flower, with her long
eyelashes drooped. At last, making up his mind:
“M. Joyeuse,” said he thickly, “I have a very serious communication to
make to you.”